


Whiskey On Rye

by TreacleTeacups



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: All The Tropes, And our favourite villain, Blood Adoption, Creature Inheritances, F/M, Gen, Grey Harry, Independent Harry, Like, M/M, Mating Patterns, Minor Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Moments of dubious consent (due to creature behaviour), Wills, all of them - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-04-27 17:13:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14430315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TreacleTeacups/pseuds/TreacleTeacups
Summary: The summer after fifth year, Harry goes rogue. A clash of wills, money/creature inheritances, independent Harry and our favourite villain – in other words, an AU mesh of fanfiction plots. Slash. Slow lead up and a fair bit of angst at first. Begins post death of Sirius Black and Harry decides it's time to take control.





	1. There's No Place Like Home

**Chapter 1: There’s No Place Like Home**

Harry watched in despondent apathy as England passed by the window of his uncle’s car. London had blurred into small towns and countryside long ago and Little Winging lay not far away. He had tuned out his uncle’s grumbling, noting that the man certainly seemed disturbed by the Order’s warning at Station 9 ¾ but his reaction was more infuriated than cowed. Harry couldn’t possibly care less.

Harry stared blankly ahead, drawn to the repetitive echoes in his subconscious calling out for his attention. Insane laughter filled his mind and he closed his eyes, trying to meditate. _Clear your mind, you imbecilic child!_ Harry’s eyes snapped open in horror and he breathed deeply through his nose, trying to calm his shaky nerves.

Finally, after hours of torturous silence interspersed with his uncle’s mutters, Vernon Dudley’s belching car pulled into the driveway of No. Four Private Drive. Harry carefully stepped out of the vehicle and glanced at the withering house. From the overgrown lawn to the chipping weather boards, it was obvious the house attends had been abandoned since his last summer holiday – a fact that no doubt deeply disgusted his relatives.

“Now the windows won’t be washed and you’ll be allowed to live off our life and blood willy nilly,” Uncle Vernon muttered harshly under his breath, grinding his teeth with frustration. Harry assumed the man was still agonising that he couldn’t exploit his nephew for domestic slavery.

Harry gingerly took Hedwig’s cage out of the car, smiling softly at the sound of her chirping as she braced herself against the movement. His trunk followed behind Hedwig, thankfully charmed with a potent featherweight charm prior to leaving Hogwarts, especially considering Vernon didn’t lift a finger to aid his young charge.

Once the duo slipped into the front entrance, the door slammed shut with a dramatic bang and Harry was pressed against the wall by his uncle’s beefy fist. Harry felt every muscle in his being tense, shocked by his uncle’s sudden violent actions.

"You leave that ruddy bird in your damn room, you hear me? No fucking noise, no fucking bird shit – I don’t want a goddamn peep out of either of you, you hear?” Vernon snarled venomously, spittle splattering both Harry and Hedwig with ferocity.

“Yes, sir,” Harry answered compliantly, eyes unfocused as they held steady over his uncle’s shoulder. He breathed in and fought to quiet his thoughts, reminding his muscles to relax and focus on the magical energy just buzzing on his fingertips. _Never make eye contact_. _Clear your mind!_ Harry understood now with cold clarity.

“That’s better, you little shit,” Vernon gloated victoriously, pleased with his nephew’s submissiveness. “Now those blokes you call friends aren’t going to find out about anything, you hear? Nothing. You clean the goddamn house, you wash the fucking sheets, you tidy the fucking garden, and no one hears a damn thing.”

Harry finally turned his attention to his uncle with little interest, normally bright green eyes dulled and hands twitching as he refrained from wiping the spit globs on his cheek. “I don’t need to say anything, Uncle Vernon, because they’re _always watching_ ,” Harry crooned softly. Harry didn’t need make empty threats – not when it came to this.

Vernon let go of Harry as if burnt, clenching his fists with barely suppressed rage and trembling in purple faced fury.

“Go to your room,” the man gritted out, beady eyes darting around the entrance hall in paranoia.

Harry ducked his head demurely and dragged his belonging up the stairs.

* * *

Harry had lived in No. Four Private Drive long enough to know the habits of the neighbourhood. Dusk approached with a heavy haze and vehicles drove in from the city centre, lining up along the street and turning into their respective driveways like a sixties movie set. Suited men piled out of the cars and walked straight into their houses, downtrodden souls with little to live for other than their well-groomed yards, iron pressed ties and mortgaged middle-class sedans.

It had been two nights spent poorly at No. Four Private Drive since his _homecoming_ , as he oft thought to himself with bitter amusement. Having to do nothing at his relative’s house was once a dream but it had now become an overbearing curse, his mind churning with the need to do something lest he fall into his dark thoughts. Harry spent the days focusing on clearing his mind, obsessively meditating until he nearly passed out from exhaustion and hunger. At six pm sharp each evening, Harry sat at the window and watched the ritual of returning workers with dissatisfaction, not quite understanding why he fought so hard to protect these hollow shells of people.

Harry bid his time, knowing that a member of the Order watched him just outside his view (if that tingling sensation of being watched was anything to go by), and he silently plotted to break free.

* * *

It had been seven days since Harry returned to No. Four Private Drive and almost three weeks since the Ministry debacle. Sirius’ loss was felt like a missing limb, cauterised poorly and weeping from infection. Harry couldn’t even think the man’s name without feeling physical pain sweep his being, ripping his breath away and cramping his chest in vice-like agony.

Harry had sent Hedwig to the Burrow that morning, declaring that she was too bored and too restrained at his relative’s house and wouldn’t they please take care of her? A few gallons for bird food and treats he had sent along with Hedwig would surely be appreciated though unnecessary and Harry didn’t expect a response; Dumbledore insisted on a communication embargo while Harry lay shipwrecked in Suburban Hell.

The sun had set a few hours before and the heat finally began to abate, Little Winging sighing a collective breath of relief. Windows were thrown open to enjoy the cool breeze down the street, but Harry kept his re-barred window tightly shut. His dim bedroom light had been left off for a few hours now and he quietly mediated in peace, _clear your mind clear your mind,_ as he waited for his little wrist watch from childhood to chime.

At exactly nine o’clock, his digital watch beeped as programmed and Harry jumped up from his position on the floor. An invisibility cloak was quickly curled around Harry’s shoulders and he slipped through his bedroom door, wandlessly unlocked with brutal force half a second before. Four seconds past nine o’clock, he descended the staircase silently and seven seconds past nine, he had slipped through the front door.

With a fair bit more concentration than the _alohamora_ , Harry wandlessly cast a noiseless charm on his sneakers, wand tucked carefully in the folds of his robes, and sprinted down the road to freedom.

* * *

Harry breathed a sigh of relief as the sun rose on the platform of Little Whinging’s train station. The morning train clattered noisily into the station and he rose from his cramped position on the gritty tiles. Carefully wrapped in his invisibility cloak, he snuck past the Monday morning flock attempting to bustle their way onto the commuter train and he pulled himself onto the high luggage racks with a loftiness acquired by years of Quidditch training and a pinch of Harry Hunting.

The train to London was painfully uncomfortable, but Harry had learned to enjoy less and was out of the opening doors in a flash once the bulk of the crowd has disembarked. Finding the Leaky Cauldron was a chore but getting in was easy as the early morning wizarding drunks stumbled through the muggle entrance and allowed Harry an opportunity to slip in sight unseen. Once inside, he carefully whispered past the bar and, in what felt like seconds, stood in the great entrance hall of Gringotts Bank.

Getting the goblins’ attention while invisible was a little more difficult but approaching a teller and waving a vault key in the air (with seemingly no hand attached) appeared to do the trick.

The key was snatched out of the air and the offending goblin sneered in his general direction, jerking his head in a ‘come here’ motion. Harry obediently followed the scowling creature past the guards and into the gated entrance of the vault carts.

Once sure he could disrobe the cloak without causing a scene, Harry carefully pulled off his Invisibility Cloak and nodded thankfully at the goblin. It merely sneered coldly once more in response and handed him off to the nearest escort. A few muttered words and the teller goblin toddled off, eventually returning with a goblin that Harry recalled from his first visit to Gringotts.

“Mr. Potter,” growled the new goblin. “I will be your escort. I am – “

“Griphook, yes. We met a few years ago,” Harry interrupted politely, extending his hand to shake.

Griphook merely bared pointy teeth at the proffered appendage and gestured towards the rickety wooden bucket that was to be their ride into the bank’s depth. Harry acquiesced, withdrawing his hand quickly and climbing into the cart.

The ride was shorter but more vicious than he recalled from his experience with Hagrid and he wondered if the vaults were moved regularly. Though, to be honest, Harry really didn’t care much as long as he could access his gold when needed.

The ride came to a shuddering halt in front of large, dragon-smelted iron door. The pair climbed out the cart, which abruptly shot off without notice.

“Mr. Griphook,” Harry whispered with soft deference, waiting for his escort to turn to him in response before continuing. “May I request conversion of galleons to muggle pounds?”

The goblin grinned, or rather a frightening mockery of one, and nodded. “For a fee,” it intoned lecherously.

“Of course,” Harry agreed instantly, not wanted to contradict the creature’s ferocious gold lust inspired by bank fees.

Upon opening the doors to his vault, Harry was once again reminded that he held the fortune of House Potter in his fingertips. Piles of gold, silver, and jewels leaned to and fro, as if carelessly dropped there by generations before. A thought struck him – and though tasteless, his gut encouraged him to speak.

“Mr. Griphook, would you know if my parents or the Potter family… Left a will?”

Griphook slowly turned to face Harry in the vault, still standing as guard by the iron doors, and narrowed beady eyes at his charge.

“You received notice of _vive voce_ , announcement of the wills, last year and past week past did you not?” Griphook growled impatiently.

Harry blinked in surprise, the goblin’s sudden announcement shocking him slightly out of his numb stupor. “No, Mr. Griphook. I’m afraid I did not and have not received correspondence from this bank before,” he answered carefully and precisely, not sure what the goblin meant.

Griphook glared at him, both wizard and goblin sizing the other up for a tense moment, then he growled irritably and waved Harry off. “Finish your deeds, then we speak, Mr. Potter.”

Harry nodded and went back to collecting galleons in silence.

* * *

Less than a quarter hour later saw Harry sitting in a dark, dank meeting room in the depths of Gringotts Bank, sitting at the edge of a decaying wood table. Griphook and an unintroduced goblin of stature muttered angrily in the corner of the room, leaving Harry to quietly meditate. He had become much better at slipping into the mindset of Occlumency, somehow advancing much faster while away from Hogwarts. Though, to be fair, Harry knew it probably had to do with the fact his mind wasn’t being broken into on a constant basis. It also helped that he found his conscious shielding away from the more treacherous thoughts in his mind, reminding him of –

“Mr. Potter,” the unknown goblin suddenly announced. Harry pulled himself out of his haze and tiredly nodded at the goblin to continue. “I am Reinfeng, head administrator of _Wills, Wishes and Trusts_ at Gringotts.”

“Thank you for meeting me today,” Harry replied softly, hoping his poorly groomed etiquette skills would appease the sour faced creature.

The goblin harrumphed, obviously unimpressed. “Griphook has informed me of your lack of communication from Gringotts. We find this highly concerning, considering Griphook is the administrator of your family estate as well as your personal trust. Griphook has been sending you quarterly reports since you reopened the Potter Vault five years ago.”

Harry felt his jaw fall open, gaping stupidly at the goblin in incomprehension.

“You must understand Gringotts takes customer security very seriously,” Reinfeng murmured dangerously and Harry nodded quickly in agreeance. “Griphook has informed me that you responded to the _vive voce_ invitation last year and the week last, but merely declined attending or sending a representative to the reading of the wills, thus abolishing your right to inherit.”

Harry tipped his head in confusion, eyes narrowing in thought. This seemed to irritate the goblins even more.

“Do you understand?” Griphook queried accusingly.

“No,” Harry answered weakly, ashamed of his lack of understanding of wizarding culture. A wisp of disgust curled in Harry’s stomach as he realised how completely out of touch he was with his own heritage.

“This heir is mongrel,” Reinfeng snapped at Griphook, whose hand shot up to silence his companion.

“He is a child still,” Griphook responded ferociously and Reinfeng bitterly shut his mouth, looking away.

“We will cease attempts to communicate with you via owl regarding important, private documents,” Griphook informed Harry firmly. “But we will continue with basic, falsified versions of the bank statement you should have been receiving as to not alert your interceptor. We will retain all statements and letters of true reflections of your accounts and activities onsite and will provide these to you only upon request. Do you agree?”

Harry nodded once more and sighed silently, already tiring of this conversation with the demanding bankers.

“ _Vive voce_ means reading of wills, of which the heir of an estate or estates has the right of requesting upon fifteen years of age and, should the inheritor accept the estates, they will be declared an emancipated minor and adult in the eyes of Wizarding Law,” Griphook explained, a shadow of contempt dominating his sharp features. “Declining to attend forfeits rights to any contents of the will.

“You were alerted of the collective Potter will reading a year ago, nearly to this date, but obviously this was not received by you and a falsified response was given to decline. A missive was sent to you more than a week ago and once more a falsified response of declination was provided.” Griphook’s expression became even more shadowed and bitter. “It must have been a particularly powerful wizard or witch, or especially sly, to have deceived us into believing the responses to be valid,” Griphook added quietly in a tone that spoke of grave danger for the counterfeiter should the goblins find them.

Harry stared at the goblin in numb shock.

“In the case of the Potter will, this will not affect your inheritance as your failure to attend merely meant your inheritance was placed in a trust for future Potter generations, only to be distributed to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry should the last of the Potter line become deceased without an heir. The Black will, however, would have seen your inheritance lost.”

“Black… Will?” Harry choked out suddenly, his heart stopping for a moment and then returning to life with a war-drum tempo.

“Yes,” Griphook stated ruthlessly, clearly tiring of the conversation. “ _Vive voce_ of Heir Sirius Orion Arcturus Black will commence in four days.”

Harry began to tremble and clamped his hands down on either elbow, crossing his arms across his chest in an attempt to contain himself.

“I,” Harry began and stopped as his voice cracked. “I would like to attend. _Please_ ,” he added helplessly.

“Your attendance has been marked,” Griphook stated shortly, rising from his seat instantly.

“But – but what if the person intercepting my mail comes too?” Harry asked quickly.

Griphook and Reinfeng, who had hung back in the shadows until now, looked at one another appraisingly.

“We could read the will today on a special condition release,” Reinfeng began slowly. “For a fee, you see.” The proffered smirk was slimier than Harry had ever seen but he held onto the offer like a lifeline.

“Of course, anything,” Harry begged while gripping the table hard enough to drive splinters into his nails, suddenly feeling more emotion in that moment than he had in nearly a month. 

Harry was desperate to hear the words of his godfather, to hear final words instead of watching him fall wordlessly, laughingly through the Veil. Gold and money and estate be damned – Harry had a feeling that he was invited to hear the _vive voce_ as Sirius mentioned him directly and a hollow, broken part of his soul would give anything to be able to hear Sirius’ address once more.

“We will arrange for the appointment in two hours, Mr. Potter,” Griphook answered firmly. “The fees will be charged to your account.”

“Two hours,” Harry agreed breathlessly and then he was whisked out of the room, a handful of galleons instantly converted into more pounds than he’d ever seen, and sent to fend for himself in Diagon Alley as he awaited the Last Will and Testament of Sirius Black.


	2. Where There's A Will There's A way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry formulates a plan and an unexpected relative assists.

Harry spent a fair while of his free time slinking under his cloak through the shadowy streets of Knockturn Alley. Though his travels into London and time spent at the bank had seen the morning turn into early afternoon, the shady storefronts were only just beginning to stir and open for the day’s trading.

A particularly damp, dark corner of the alley was taken over an apocathary which, unlike its Diagon Alley’s counterpart, certainly did _not_ advertise its contents or sales. Harry snuck into the shop as best as he could but was outed by a loud chiming spell on the door, alerting the shop keeper of his entrance. Realising the attendant would know of his presence whether under the cloak or not and knowing he must keep his family heirloom a secret, Harry quickly whipped the cloak off and tucked it into his satchel.

Harry lifted the hood of his outer robes over his head to shadow his face and did his best to stay small and unnoticed, roaming the shelves of the deserted store with careful disinterest. He slowly passed shelf after shelf of dusty bottles, cramped writing on the jars too slanted and tight to read without getting far too close for comfort.

“How may I help you, lad?” A rough Irish brogue broke through Harry’s concentration, the accent harsh and clipping in the dead silence of the store.

Harry slowly turned to face the shopkeeper, a small, greying man in his late fifties. The man’s wrinkled face was accentuated by pursed lips and squinting eyes.

“Polyjuice, one hour,” rasped Harry, voice still rough and sore from days without speaking.

“Aye, round the left, there,” the man gestured with a nod. “An’ ‘ow much?”

“Two dozen doses,” Harry replied quietly, disturbed by the man’s voice echoing in the spacious store.

“Now, lad, tha’ seems like a fair amount fer someone so little. I won’ be sellin’ ta no boys neither, ya hear?”

“Two dozen doses, Polyjuice, one hour,” Harry repeated calmly, facing the attendant straight  on but angling his exposed back away from the front door. “For my master,” he added softly on a strange intuition that encouraged him to play the apprentice. The keeper’s loud voice gave him a bad feeling, as if he was speaking loud enough for another to hear, but Harry couldn’t leave without his order. Everything he’d planned for depended on this moment.

The little man sized him up, clearly irritated by being treated dismissively but seemingly appeased by the thought of Harry being an apprentice. Finally, after moment of painful indecision, the shopkeeper acquiesced and gestured for Harry to follow him.

Harry was led to a dim little corner of the store and the shopkeeper slid behind a large desk. “Two dozen doses, ya say? Aye, ‘ave enough for tha’,” he muttered, writing down the request in an enormous accounting book. “Two ‘undred and eighty galleon, then.”

Harry stood quietly before the man.

“Come on, then!” The man barked, gesturing for Harry to move.

“One fifty,” Harry responded firmly.

“Aye, ‘old on ‘ere boy,” the shopkeeper warned with sudden shrewdness, clawed hands griping the end of the desk and leaning over to stick his wrinkled mug close to Harry’s hooded face. “You expectin’ me to sell ter a minor and then get pushed ‘round? Yer a bloody little –”

“One fifty,” Harry interrupted, “And I’ll come back next fortnight for another round if my master approves.”

Harry was grateful for his years of sneaking around and experience with stressful situations, because he wasn’t sure where he pulled that answer out of but it certainly seemed to work.

“Aye?” The shopkeeper murmured, leaning back on his haunches and appraising Harry.

“Yes,” Harry responded quietly.

“One fifty, with an oath to return,” the shopkeeper demanded.

“One fifty, and I’ll return if I’m told to,” Harry answered chillily.

The shopkeeper harrumphed and then laughed. “You wee little lad certainly know how to bargain, aye? Fine, fine, business is slow these days anyway,” he muttered as he began to wander off for the ingredients.

Harry held back a snort. With the rise in black magic seeping out of the woodwork over the past month since Voldemort’s public resurrection, Harry was sure business in Knockturn was booming.

“Two dozen bloody doses o’ Polyjuice. Anything else, lad?” The shopkeeper barked as he returned from the depth of the store, bringing with him a decisively fresher bell jar of Polyjuice than that on display, though it was pretty difficult to tell with the pus-coloured, chunky potion.

“Two dozen vials,” Harry requested patiently.

The man cackled and procured the vials, handing them over the desk. “Ten galleon for the vials. Strange wee boy, ain’t ya? Where yer master bein’, anyway?”

Harry tilted his head at the man’s questions and tossed a bag of galleons at him. The man caught the bag with surprising deftness and counted as Harry deposited his purchase in his bag.

“One ‘undred and sixty gallons,” the shopkeeper announced, ticking a box in his book. Turning towards Harry, he snarled, “ _Now get out_.”

Harry couldn’t move fast enough.

* * *

 

For the rest of his time in Diagon Alley, Harry completed his Hogwarts shopping. While he had yet to receive his letter informing him of his OWLS (and subsequent NEWT courses), he figured it would be beneficial to purchase all the books for the course classes offered and do a bit of extracurricular reading. Fortunately, the shopkeepers knew the curriculum requirements and book requests far before students as Harry only needed to mention he was a sixth year (and a flash of his face helped here and there) and suddenly a pile of school supplies was being rung up at the till.

As Harry was quickly realising, he would need to stop depending on Hermione as a fountain of knowledge. He couldn’t bare it if he forced her to come along another one of his quests through guilt and fear for his wellbeing. Harry swallowed a lump of guilt at the back of his throat as he recalled Hermione barely breathing in the hospital wing, medi-witches and wizards fluttering around her as they tried to heal the horrors of the Department of Mysteries.

At last, Harrys finally wrapped up the last of his shopping, bidding adieu to Madam Malkin of _Madam Malkin’s Robes For All Occasions_ , sure to thank her profusely for the self-tailoring robes, slacks and shirts. Though he knew instinctively that he wouldn’t grow much bigger than his current petite frame (and mentally cursing years of poor nutrition the entire time), he couldn’t convince the woman that he was not on the edge of a growth spurt like his peers. However, the self-tailoring attire was a nice touch to an admittedly bland wardrobe and, with a bit of luck, he wouldn’t need to return until well after graduating Hogwarts. 

As the minutes counted down on two hours, Harry returned to Gringotts with a growing pit of dread in his stomach. Hearing the last words of Sirius seemed so vital in the moment, but as it loomed closer Harry found himself clenching his nails into his fists and hunching on his way to the bank under his thick, undetectable cloak.

Reinfeng and Griphook were awaiting his arrival at the main entrance and seemed to instinctively be aware of Harry’s invisible presence as they quickly joined step beside him and escorted him to the large entrance doors of the meeting rooms.

Once the trio was safely tucked away from prying eyes, Harry removed his cloak and tucked it into his almost full expanding knapsack, quickly removing it from the line of sight of the goblins. He certainly didn’t trust the salacious glint in their eyes upon seeing the ancient artefact.

“Sit, Mr. Potter,” Griphook barked, causing Harry to drop obediently into the nearest seat. Griphook and Reinfeng moved to sit directly across him at the long meeting desk. Two large pieces of parchment lay before the goblins, the slanted words undecipherable from Harry’s position. Griphook stood and cleared his throat, ignoring Harry’s obvious tremors.

“Black or Potter?” Griphook asked bluntly, as if asking if he preferred coffee or tea. Harry swallowed, not ready to hear either.

“Could – would it be possible to request a copy of the Potter will to read later?” He asked with trepidation. “For a fee, of course,” he added upon noticing Griphook’s dark smirk.

“Of course, Heir Potter. Heir Black’s will is holographic and though Reinfeng has verified its validity, we cannot allow a copy of the man’s writing to be distributed. However, the Potter Will was written by myself approximately seventeen years ago to this date, so you may receive a transcript for your records. Your acceptance of Heir James Potter and Heiress Lily Potter’s Will has been noted and a copy will be provided to you,” Griphook agreed, snapping his fingers. One of the large, worn document on the table rolled up and disappeared with a flash.  

“We gather here today to read the final Will and Testament of Heir Sirius Orion Arcturus Black,” Griphook began without warning, jumping straight in. Harry felt his shoulders droop as a wave of despair hit his chest violently.

“I, Sirius Orion Arcturus Black, Heir to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black and member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, hereby decree the following: All of my titles, political seats, assets, belongings, estates, vaults, heirlooms, and shares are hereby bequeathed in name, right and ownership to my godson, Harry James Potter.”

Harry gaped openly at Griphook in pure shock, who seemed overall bored with the entire situation and droned on in his gravelly voice.

“In the event Harry James Potter is unable to accept any or all of the willed, the aforementioned are to be converted into a trust for the Education, Welfare and Protection of Werewolves. The trust is to be managed by Lupin Remus, whom shall be the sole beneficiary until he nominates those he sees fit to share the responsibilities and benefits of said trust.” At this, Griphook appeared to have eaten a particularly sour lemon, but he continued without pause.

“In the event anyone other than Harry James Potter is invited to hear this Will and Testament, I request all remaining leave bar Harry Potter himself and those Harry requests to retain as counsel for the following.” Griphook then looked up at Harry, who nodded at Reinfeng and gestured for Griphook to continue.

“Harry, my dearest pup and godson,” Griphook began, but Harry had stopped hearing the goblin’s voice. Sirius was suddenly in his hear, whispering the words that seeped into his soul, filling it with a warmth he hadn’t felt in an era. “I love you like a son. While I would love you alone for the fact you are the product of my best friends, you are so much more than that. You believed in me when you knew nothing of me, you trusted my judgement and loved me faultlessly. You have the compassion and intelligence of your mother, the cheek and curiosity of your father, and the brave lion heart of your parents combined.

“For some reason, I am not here and for that I wish nothing more than you hold you one more time, ruffle your hair and call you Little Prongs. But in the eventuality that I could not be here for you, and should you be receiving this message prior to your sixteenth birthday, I wished to leave an opportunity for you to decide upon. It is an important matter that I wished to discuss with you in person but would still like to you extend now that I am no longer with you. 

“The Black family no longer has a direct Heir, something that you know very well I could care less for. But as the final Heir to a dying family of a most Noblest and Ancientest and bestest House (at this, Harry snorted), I have been given one gift by my ancestral-hood – the ability to blood adopt.”

At this, Reinfeng gasped uncharacteristically and even Griphook seemed to balk. Griphook shook himself and read on, eyes squinting and pulling the parchment closer as he read with concentration.

“You are unfamiliar with pureblood culture and custom, so to give you a brief introduction in something that is more understood by oral lore than in book and deeply important to our civilisation, please consider the following before you agree.

“Blood adoption by an ancient dark family is in itself ancient blood magic; not necessarily bad nor good but rather simply strong blood magic. Blood magic has been deemed evil in many ways, but from your own experience you know how beautiful and powerful it can be. You will not only become a Black in name, but in blood and magic. And you will become partially my son. You will _always_ be James and Lily’s boy, but you’ll be mine too and afforded all the protections granted by my name.

“Think it over, learn, and seek council, pup. I have charmed a vial of my blood and left it in my personal vault in the eventuality I could not be here today to ask you this myself. I hereby give the goblin Griphook express permission to complete the ceremony in the event you agree. I have arranged for you to meet with a pureblood etiquette governess for the month prior your sixteenth birthday – go to her, seek knowledge and understanding of my offer as this magic is rarely found in textbooks. The spell and blood will expire on midnight of your sixteenth birthday as you will come to magical maturity. Blood magic in this form will no longer work after this age.

“I love you Harry. Though I can’t be with you now, I will always be with you in spirit, whether or not you decide to go forward with this. Remember that I will always be on the other side of the mirror, of life’s thin veil, ready to welcome you when it’s time. Now it’s my time and, to be honest, I can’t wait to see Lily and James once more.”

* * *

 

The train back to Little Whinging went by in a flash. Harry clutched his bag and note from Gringotts, confirming details of their next meeting to go over the enormous estates that encompassed the House of Black and House of Potter. The goblins had gleefully informed Harry that Sirius’ upcoming _vive voce_ would be cancelled; a letter of the cancellation would be disbursed promptly, announcing that the single benefactor of the will had claimed the inheritance in private and the document would be sealed in Gringott’s private records away from prying eyes. Harry got the feeling that the goblins were also on the hunt for the interceptor of his letters and the glint in their eyes promised true pain to the witch or wizard who dared interfere with their business.

A letter had also been owled to the governess Sirius wrote of, requesting an audience at her earliest convenience. Harry numbly recalled that he was to return to Gringotts as soon as possible to receive his confidential reply.

Once the train pulled into the grotty station of Little Whinging, the hour was nearing six and Harry hurried to Private Drive. The Order patrol shift change was every three hours and he knew that for those few precious seconds, he could sneak in under his cloak just behind his large uncle as the man returned from the day’s work.

Once safely in his room, Harry’s mind switched off, his brain unbearably full and overloaded to painful numbness from the day’s events. Harry sat by his window at six pm sharp and watched blankly as the hours passed, the deep hues of a violent sunset slowly extinguish into darkness.

* * *

 

The next morning, Harry awoke at the crack of dawn and he set about organising his belongings. Unlike years before, Harry was allowed to keep his trunk in his room rather than stuffed in the cupboard under the stairs and he pulled out everything he owned to lay on the floor. Candies, socks, broken quills, scraps of parchment and everything a teenage boy owned under the sun (sans Dean and Seamus’ collection of … _entertainment_ ) lay scattered in his room haphazardly and he frowned at the odd collection of junk.

Harry stuffed a plastic bag with rubbish and sorted his clothing, grateful that he could finally throw away the last of Dudley’s hand-me-downs. He carefully organised his trunk, which he had bought from a catalogue at the end of fourth year upon Hermione’s encouragement. Seeing Mad Eye Moody’s truck (or, rather, his imposter’s) had inspired him to have a trunk of his own that could become a mobile house. Harry would never agree to sleeping in his trunk (the thought made him feel claustrophobically sick) but at least he could organise his belongings into one featherlight portable box.

Harry carefully cleaned and organised the trunk’s little library, putting away his fifth year and new sixth year texts. Potion ingredients were stored away, various clothes hung up to prevent wrinkles and others folded, his Quidditch gear wiped and carefully sorted – Harry winced. He wondered if the Frog Woman had destroyed his Firebolt. The thought made this stomach clench and he shielded away from the idea, focusing once more on the soothing motions of tidying his belongings.

At last, Harry was organised. Thankfully he had a very small wardrobe and collection of school supplies, which made up the entirety of his worldly possessions. _Not anymore_ , Harry realised with a jolt as he recalled yesterday’s events. Merlin, he truly owned more than he would ever need use for. Harry pushed the thought away with a frown.

Harry had purchased a small satchel backpack with expanding features (the usefulness never ended) while in Diagon Alley and he lifted his truck, tucking the mouth of the satchel around its edges and trying to squish the much larger trunk into the little bag. At last, he gave one final heave and his truck was swallowed into the depths of the small backpack.

He wandered around his room and tided, banishing dust, Hedwig’s feathers, and uneaten meals with a wave of his hand. Once the room was appropriately clean, and not looking so much like a hovel, Harry sat on the floor with his knapsack and waited for the rest of the household to wake up.

* * *

 

Getting Dudley Dursley to listen was not as easy as it looked. The boy had grown into something of a mammoth over the past year and was nearly as wide as he was tall. Harry, being the shortest student of his year and scrawnier than even a few third years, looked down at the dumb boy from the top of the stairs and frowned.

Dudley was certainly not the sharpest of the bunch and it showed, with small, emotionless eyes staring dully ahead and a mouth perpetually hung open in stupendous stupidity. He stood awkwardly, slightly bent from boxing, his muscles clearly swollen and straining from what Harry assumed to be a rather nasty steroid habit.

Harry snuck down the top of the stairs just after Dudley entered the house an hour before dinner. It was nearly six o’clock and Harry needed the boy’s attention quickly seeing as explaining what he needed was going to be no short work.

“Psst,” Harry hissed down the stairs, “Dudley! Up here.”

His cousin turned to him slowly, looking up the darkened staircase. Harry beckoned his cousin and backed up the stairs slowly, gesturing the boy to follow him with each step. Dudley looked frightened, but also a bit intrigued, and warily followed his cousin back into the little bedroom.

Harry carefully snapped the door shut and Dudley was suddenly crowding his space.

“Listen, Harry, if you think you can do your freaky magic stuff on me, then you have another thing coming! I’ll punch your living daylights out before you can do that stuff to me,” Dudley was muttering angrily, acting like a trapped animal in a corner, about to fight his way out.

“It’s not that,” Harry sighed, slipping under Dudley’s enormous fist in a smooth movement. “I have a deal I want to make with you.”

Dudley slowly considering this, leaning back on his haunches and appraising his younger cousin, though Harry figured the boy was thinking at a glacial pace as he failed to respond.

Harry forged on. “I can’t be here anymore. I have things I need to do. But there are people who expect me to be here, to stay and be good until the end of summer. They’re watching,” Harry explained, watching his cousin shrink under the thought of being watched by _his kind_.

“They need to see evidence that I’m here at least once a day. No one can come near the house, even my kind, unless they mean no harm,” Harry continued quickly, seeing that Dudley was following, if just.

“You need someone to pretend you’re here?” Dudley asked, confused.

“Yes, good,” Harry approved. “But I need something a little more. Once a night, at six o’clock, I sit at the bedroom window and look out. Then I’ll move around the room and do some stuff. But for the rest of the day, I stay still and don’t do anything so the watchers know they won’t see me for the rest of the day.”

Dudley seemed perplexed. “You don’t do nothin’?” He asked, dumbfounded.

“I meditate,” Harry answered shortly, hoping to get to the point. “What I need you do to is pretend to be me for an hour a night.”

Dudley seemed to be unimpressed and made a motion to push Harry aside and leave the room, but Harry slyly whispered, “ _For a fee, of course_ ,” making the brute stop in his tracks.

Dudley turned his beady eyes to his cousin. “How much?” He grunted out, eyes roving around the bedroom as he looked for a hidden stash of cash.

“I’ll tell you where the money is once I show you how you’re going to do it,” Harry responded calmly, watching his cousin’s reaction with guarded eyes. While Harry knew it was painfully immoral, he wordlessly weaved a bit of wandless compulsion onto Dudley, worried that the bully would just knock him over and turn over the room looking for the reward.

“Oh fine, whatever,” Dudley agreed, rolling his eyes, and Harry stifled a sigh of relief.

“We’ll do the first test tonight, to see if you can handle it,” Harry murmured, glancing at the time on the little digital watch on his wrist. He led Dudley over to the desk, carefully positioned as far away from the window as possible, and pulled out the only desk drawer. Twenty vials of putrid liquid clinked together as they rolled into view. Harry unstoppered one and picked up a short, black hair from a pile in the drawer and dropped it into the vial.

The liquid hissed, bubbled and oozed, but thankfully didn’t splash over the vial lip. Dudley peered into the bottle suspiciously, looking at the slightly smoking ivory-turned-gold potion and pursed his lips in thought.

“You drink this, spend a few minutes at the bedroom window, totter around the room for an hour, then you’re done. Once a night. One hundred pounds per night,” Harry stated firmly.

Dudley looked at his cousin in surprise. “A _hundred pounds_ per night? But… but there must be…” He turned to count the vials and Harry huffed out a laugh.

“Twenty. Two thousand pounds. If you follow through, that is,” Harry crooned.

Dudley’s head whipped around to look at his cousin in awe. “Did you steal that money?” He asked excitedly.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Dudley, I know that you think my parents were unemployed drunks who died in a car crash, but that’s basically the furthest thing from the truth. Even if they were unemployed drunks who died in a car crash, they also happened to be extremely wealthy, well off drunks with a family fortune.”

Dudley looked at his cousin in complete confusion. “But dad says you’re living off us for free like an urchin–”

“Yes, I know what Uncle Vernon says,” Harry cut him off ruthlessly, bitterness swelling in the back of his throat. “But from what I understand, and if my bank statements are to be believed, my family trust has been transferring money into your mother’s bank account since the moment I was deposited on your doorstep. Don’t you wonder why I wasn’t immediately taken to the nearest fire station or orphanage?”

Dudley’s mouth opened in surprise and his chubby cheeks trembled as his mouth worked, but no words came out.

“Every time you do this, you will be able to withdraw one hundred pounds from my bank account. I set up a joint bank account that I’ll top up daily; I’ll provide you the details after this first test. If you do as I ask, I’ll know. I’ll top of the account. If you choose to withdraw every couple of days, that’s fine. The money will be accessible at any time for you, but it will only be there if you do as I ask.” Harry emphasised once more, staring apathetically at his cousin as he waited for an answer.

“Hundred ‘n’ fifty pounds,” Dudley announced, clearly figuring he could shake down his cousin a little harder.

“No,” Harry bluntly stated in a chilling tone. “You get what I offer. And just remember, you do this for me and I’ll be in your debt. I am set up to become quite possibly the richest person in Britain on my sixteenth birthday. We have a lifetime ahead of us for you to call on that debt,” Harry said, a tone of finality ringing in this voice (and thanking Professor McGonagall for that particular skill).

“Now it’s almost six. Drink this, or don’t. It’s up to you if you want to take a once in a lifetime deal,” Harry stated, holding up the vial of golden liquid as if he couldn’t care less. The trick with Dudley was to always, always have the upper hand – the boy responded to power, not empathy.

Dudley quickly grabbed the vial in his beefy hand and downed it, gagging but not spilling a drop. He looked at Harry with a puzzled expression on his face and, like Harry had seen over the years before, his skin began to twist and bubble as he shifted into another form. To his merit, Dudley didn’t cry or moan or even scream – he merely stared at Harry with frightened tiny eyes, motivated by greed.

Harry realised he probably should have tested the potion before forcing it upon his muggle cousin, especially considering where he purchased it from. _Oh well_ , Harry thought with a bit of cruelty as his cousin shook and changed form. _Waste not, want not_.

After a few agonising minutes of transformation, Harry was finally looking straight at a mirror image of himself. For the first time, Harry realised what other people saw when they looked at him. He was small, but not exactly proportionally so. He looked stunted, from what he assumed was years of poor nutrition and being trapped in a dark cupboard under the stairs. Both of his parents were quite tall, so his short stature of 164 cm was obvious as some of his proportions appeared to be made for a larger body. Pale, sallow skin wrapped around his too thin body, his bones sticking out in obvious protrusion, even underneath all those layers of Dudley’s clothes.

Tight, wiry muscles laced his body, making him look like a wildling left to hunt for his own, away from civilisation and slowly starving to death. His hair was messy beyond belief, making him look wind swept and wild but not in a devil-may-care way. Bright green eyes peered back at himself, a jarring shade of jade green that reminded him of a certain spell. The thought made him cringe.

All in all, Harry processed the image he projected and realised why it was so easy for the Daily Prophet to characterise him as an insane attention seeker – and for the wizarding and witching public to accept it so quickly – as he looked even more mad than Professor Trelawney and Luna Lovegood combined.

Sighing, Harry nodded to Dudley and figured he could dwell on his despairing appearance at a later date. Harry pulled off his glasses and handed them to Dudley, encouraging the boy to put them on. Hesitantly, Dudley agreed and perched the thick lenses on the bridge of his nose, blinking as his weak vision came into focus. Harry suppressed an exasperated groan – his eyes seemed distorted and much bigger than natural behind those round frames. Merlin, he was _such_ a mess.

“Good, you look spot on,” Harry finally spoke, breaking the silence. Dudley seemed perplexed, obviously unsure of what he looked like at all. Harry figured it would be best to not explain Polyjuice to Dudley lest the boy suffer a panic attack, though Harry reasoned that his cousin should have figured it out seeing as he’d shrunk a fair few inches and lost nearly a couple dozen stone.

“Don’t let Vernon or Petunia know about this, don’t let them see you or hear you or even get suspicious,” Harry whispered quickly, gesturing for his cousin to sit in the chair by the window. “Look out the window, watch the people come home,” he continued, guiding his slightly trembling cousin through the steps. “Keep calm, Dudley, you’re doing fine.”

A few tense minutes later, Harry allowed Dudley to retreat from the window.

“What do you do for an hour?” Dudley whispered conspiratorially.

“I read, make the bed, stretch – I generally make a scene for the watchers without trying to look like I am,” Harry answered honestly.

Dudley sat down on the bed as he looked down at his cousin, who sat across the room with his back braced against the wall and legs sprawled out before him. “It’s kind of… Perverted, you know?” Dudley whispered back, clearly disturbed at the thought of being watched by unseen eyes.

“Yeah, kind of,” Harry answered softly, staring at a blurry image of a small spider spinning a web in the corner of the ceiling. “But that’s my life.”

“I don’t feel well,” Dudley whispered back, shifting and rubbing his arms – or rather, Harry’s.

“How so?” Harry asked, returning to focus on his cousin as best he could without his glasses.

“I’m really hungry, and my stomach hurts and my body just aches… And my head really hurts,” Dudley elaborated quietly, fidgeting uncomfortably.

“Yeah, well, again,” Harry answered in dark humour. “That’s my life.”

After that, the boys fell into a heavy silence. Dudley stood every so often and walked around to study the room and stretch his legs, but often returned to sit on the bed after a few minutes.

“Seriously, this sucks,” Dudley finally announced, his voice a little too loud for comfort.

Harry rolled his eyes and cracked his neck, checking the time on his digital watch. “You have another fifteen minutes. You’re doing fine,” Harry whispered shortly.

“Will… Will I ever go back to being me?” Dudley asked, his voice much quieter and a little shaky. Harry frowned at the odd sound of his own voice sounding so weak and helpless. 

“Of course,” Harry answered, suddenly feeling a little empathetic for his cousin’s plight and confusion. Just because his own life was a living hell, interspersed with insane adventures and painfully heavy obligations, didn’t exactly mean he could thrust the same madness on another and expect them to handle it as well as him. Well… Considering what he did to Professor Dumbledore’s office not too long ago, Harry realised that he wasn’t handling his own life very well either.

“You’ll only be in this form for an hour each night,” Harry explained softly. “Then you’ll be you again. Simple.”

Dudley appeared mollified by Harry’s answer and returned to fiddling with his fingers. “So,” the boy began, looking as if he had finally been broken by the boredom and needed to talk, if only to his crazy younger cousin. “What happened to you?”

Harry squinted at Dudley, not sure what expression the boy was sporting as the distance from Harry’s eyes blurred most of the boy’s features. “What are you talking about?” Harry asked guardedly.

“When… When you first started going to… _That place_ ,” Dudley began painfully slowly, as if unsure how to start the conversation. “You used to come back pretty happy. But… Then you came back a couple years ago, freaking out about that guy Cedric or whatever his name was. And this year you look… Dead,” Dudley ended weakly, looking down at his fidgeting fingers.

Harry didn’t answer but looked ahead at his cousin with guarded confusion, lips pursed in contemplation. “What’s it to you?” He finally asked, voice sharp and critical.

“Nothing!” Dudley barked, then shrunk in on himself at the sudden noise of his outburst. “It’s just weird. If I could do the stuff you could, I would be pretty happy, I think,” the boy admitted quietly, almost inaudibly.

Harry stared at Dudley in open surprise. Dudley scowled and looked away. “Don’t look at me like that,” the older boy snapped, albeit quietly. “If you thought for your whole life that you were better than someone; faster, stronger, better at making friends… And then one day, you found out that this person has all this power at their fingertips and is better than you’ll ever be, and they don’t even talk to you anymore because you aren’t even a threat or someone they think about after all those years, it kind of fucking sucks,” Dudley said harshly, voice cracking.

Harry looked down at the floor, not understanding where this was coming from. For years, he had loathed Dudley, but once he had discovered he was a wizard, he had been elated. He recalled the feeling of knowing he could transcend his muggle family and once he turned seventeen, he wouldn’t have to even remember they existed. Dudley thrived on power, knowing where he was on  the totem pole of the household. And, in a way, even Uncle Vernon feared Harry (especially after the Aunt Marge incident), so Harry realised he would appear to be ‘on top’ in Dudley’s eyes.

“It’s not that I hate you,” Harry slowly whispered, sounding out each word as he spoke. “And it’s not like I just decided one day that you’re scum and I’ll never think of you again, though I can’t say the same for your parents.” At this Dudley sneered but Harry forged on. “I wish I could enjoy what I have, this gift. And, to be honest, it’s in you as well. But it’s dormant. We call your kind Muggles, people without magical control.” Dudley flinched at the word and Harry roll his eyes at the dramatics.

“But everything has a bit of magic in it,” Harry whispered softly. “Even you. Muggles have children all the time and sometimes those children are magical, like my friend Hermione. I’m not sure why – though I guess there’s books and stuff about it. But I’ve been… Destined to sacrifice. I guess the closest analogy I can think of that you’ll understand, muggle analogy that is, is Jesus.”

At this, Dudley scoffed. “You think you’re Jesus?” He laughed depreciatingly.

“No,” Harry answered honestly. “But just listen. Jesus was prophesised to lead the people, yeah? To fight the sins of mankind and free everyone from hell. I just found out that there’s this prophesy about me. In my world, we have people called Seers who tell pieces of the future. Sometimes it comes true the way we think it will, sometimes it’s a little different than we thought the answer was, but it always happens. The prophesy about me says that I’m supposed to fight a horrible, powerful man. I guess you could say he’s the devil in this analogy. He wants all people like you dead, muggles and people who fight for muggles, or sinners in his twisted view. Sinning just by existing. I’m supposed to be the one to defeat him or die trying. Basically, I’m destined to be his only real competition. It’s kind of hard to focus on you or hate you when I have this crazy asshole who is pretty much the wizarding version of Hitler and a league of his freaky Nazi followers trying to hunt me down day in and day out.”

Dudley was stunned for a moment then his expression turned dark and frightened. “Will they come here too?” He asked, fearfully.

Harry sighed. “They can’t find us here,” he answered. “My mother died fighting this man. She sacrificed herself to save me, which enacted a protection called a ‘blood ward’. This ward has been placed around the house of my familial blood, from what I understand, so we’re basically hidden from magical kind. Ironically, the magic you guys loathe is the only thing keeping you from being murdered.”

“Is that why those people are watching you?” Dudley asked suddenly, showing a little more intelligence than Harry originally thought his cousin capable of.

“They’re supposed to be protecting me, but I think it’s more about keeping me hidden in one place so they don’t have to worry about their ‘Chosen One’ dying before he can face the Dark Lord,” Harry murmured darkly.

“I’m sorry,” Dudley whispered.

The apology took Harry by such surprise that he could only gape openly at his cousin, a boy he had always assumed had literally the empathy of a rock. Before Harry could say anything, Dudley began to shake and twitch, the warning signs of the Polyjuice wearing off.

“Come here!” Harry whispered desperately. “You can’t let them see you change!”

Dudley stood and tottered over to Harry in a darkened section of the bedroom, shadowed by a large bookcase. After a few stressful moments of shapeshifting, Dudley was back to his normal giant self, once more filling out his clothes and towering over Harry.

Harry nodded at his cousin as his glasses were returned.

“Here, take your first payment in cash,” Harry whispered, handing Dudley a crisp hundred pound note.

Dudley stared at the cash with amazement. “Thanks, Harry,” he whispered back, brusque but genuine.

“Don’t mention it – seriously,” Harry added, giving his cousin the most piercing look he could muster. “Here’s the bank account details,” he continued as he gave his cousin a folded note. “Just do as we practiced, don’t come out before you’ve changed, and don’t let anyone see you transform. The money will be in the account each day if you do as I say. And if Petunia or Vernon ask where I am during the day, just say that my kind have sentenced me to parole for the summer days – they’ll believe it straight away. If they catch you going into my room, just say that you’ve learnt some new pranks and are going to test them on me.”

Dudley nodded, eyes cast on the floor.

“And seriously, Dudley,” Harry whispered. “Thank you.”

Dudley looked up and smiled softly, a look Harry had never seen on his normally brutish cousin before, and Harry realised with dawning hope that this might actually work.


	3. Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow (Or Not)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry makes unexpected friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincere apologies for the delay in posing :( I have about 50K of words written, but it's all unedited and I am in the process of beta-ing now. Hope you enjoy!

**Chapter 3: Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow (Or Not)**

Harry mounted the hand mirror Sirius gave him to the wall of his bedroom with despair. Leaving the mirror at No. Four Private Drive felt tantamount to abandonment. The construction grade double sided tape nicked from Uncle Vernon’s rusting tool shed held steadfast on the wall; Harry was sure any attempt to remove it would strip the wall of its horrid wallpaper. After nearly an hour of wandlessly trying to cast a notice-me-not charm on the mirror, Harry finally felt the magic take place and he collapsed on his thin mattress, more ready than ever to leave his prison cell.

At four seconds to nine, Harry cast his best attempt at a wandless Alohomora on the door. It quietly unbolted from the outside and he slipped past the frame, thankful his door could open and close out of view of the window. Cloak covering his frame and a noiseless, weightless charm muffling his feet, he was down the stairs in a flash and out the front door, taking advantage of the Order’s few moments of distraction during patrol change.

He knew Mad Eye Moody would want to take the three am to six am charge, as those hours seemed to be some strange opportunity for witches and wizards to commit their bizarre crimes (it reminded him of the ‘witching hour’ from the Roald Dahl story books of his childhood) so he was safe from _constant vigilance!_ during this hour.

Once he passed the wards, the strange bubble of weight he had become accustomed to noticing and feeling over the summer, Harry began to sprint down Private Drive once more. His knapsack floated weightlessly on his back and his shoes made no noise in the late hours around the neighbourhood. A few open windows blared the evening news and a dog barked in the distance; Harry took comfort in the distracting noise. 

Once he had run for a good fifteen minutes, and stopped to crouch and reclaim his breath, Harry pulled out a small vial of Polyjuice potion from his pocket. He had kept four for himself, knowing that his own glamour charms wouldn’t be up to scratch if done wandlessly, and tipped a brown, greasy strand of hair from Dudley’s head in the concoction. Unlike earlier, this potion seemed to roil and boil angrily, spitting and spilling slightly over the edges as it mixed with Dudley’s DNA.

The Polyjuice finally ended in a smelly potion remarkably similar to Gregory Goyle’s. Pinching his nose, Harry tipped the nasty substance down his throat and was surprised to find that, while it looked and smelt like Goyle’s in second year, it was bitter but not nearly as putrid and had a soft, nearly absent aftertaste. Shrugging mentally, he braced himself for the transformation and shuddered uncomfortably as the potion took effect.

Once he had finally finished transforming into his obese cousin (and ever more grateful for Madam Malkin’s self-tailoring robes), Harry stashed away his invisibility cloak and raised his wand in the air. A few stressful minutes later in which Harry wasn’t sure if he could even summon his transportation in his new muggle form, a roaring noise alerted Harry of the oncoming Knight Bus.

An enormous beast of a bus stopped with alarming alacrity at his feet, the smoke belching, purple three-decker humming with magical energy. Two small doors swung open to the face of Stan Shunpike leaning over the railing to peer out into the night.

“’Ello!” Chirped Stan, who studied him critically.

“Hello,” Harry answered politely, carefully swallowing his surprise at hearing Dudley’s deep voice echoing out of his chest. “Are you heading into London this evening?”

Stan burst into laughter and waved the boy in. “Aye, boy, we’re ‘heading inta London’,” he chuckled alongside Ernie, making Harry blush uncomfortably. “Eleven sickles, that is.”

Harry handed over the money obediently. “Highbury Fields, Islington, if you please,” he requested. A ticket was quickly shoved into his hands and Harry dashed to take a seat on a nearby bed before the Knight Bus took off.

It appeared not being Harry Potter saved him the chatter of the talkative conductor and grunts of the concentrating driver, Ernie. Stan chose to natter on to some rather green looking passenger, who held a mug of hot chocolate in his shaking hands and wore a good portion of the sloshing beverage on his lapels.

Holding onto the side bracing of the bus, Harry watched patiently as the bus zipped to and fro through busy downtown London, arriving in the bustling city within moments of departing Surrey. He was once again grateful for his _never-mind-the-weather_ Quidditch training, for the sharp movements would have nauseated him in any other state. He was lulled into a state of meditation, glad to be mostly invisible to the other passengers despite his enormous size in the skin of Dudley Dursley.

The great purple bus finally heaved to a stop outside of muggle London’s Highbury Field park and Harry unsteadily dismounted from the vehicle. With a nod from the conductor and driver, the Knight Bus shot off into the night, leaving Harry alone in a dimly lit street alongside a darkened city park. Once he was in the shadows and sure no prying eyes watched him in the night, he wrapped the invisibility cloak around his shoulders and walked the few remaining blocks to the entrance of No. 12 Grimmauld Place.

* * *

Grimmauld Place was both what he remembered and not. After sneaking in the front door as quietly as possible while under his cloak, he sidestepped the troll leg umbrella stand and tiptoed past the fluttering curtains of Walburga Black’s portrait. He had honestly expected the Order of the Phoenix to still be exploiting the safe house as headquarters. But silence met his ears and dust covered the entrance carpet where it normally was cleared by the passing of multiple feet.

Harry realised with a start that Grimmauld Place was indeed his now. He had originally come to seek Sirius’ mirror and then continue on, hiding from the Order during his break to freedom. But since the house now technically belonged to him, and he had never explicitly given permission for Dumbledore or the Order to use the house, he supposed they were momentarily blocked from entering despite knowing the Fidelius’d house address. While he once would have considered that the Order refrained from entering the house out of respect until permission was granted, he was slowly coming to understand that Dumbledore did what he thought best, what he considered _for the greater good,_ and those on his side obeyed no matter the cost nor toll.

The thought weighed heavily on Harry’s conscience.

Harry jumped suddenly as his skin began to bubble and shift, realising with a start that an hour had already passed since leaving the streets of Surrey. He leant against the wall in the hallway, bracing himself against the rough transition into his own form while safety hidden under his cloak. Once his bones and flesh had ceased shifting, Harry carefully made his way up the staircase, having no interest in going down to the kitchens and chancing an encounter with the sullen Kreacher.

 _The monstrous little house elf is probably still rejoicing the death of his master_ , Harry thought bitterly as he climbed the stairs to the highest floor of the house.

It never ceased to enrage Harry that Kreacher still lived while Sirius was gone. That the little creature held together with hatred and bigotry roamed the earth while Sirius had simply disappeared, not a body to bury nor a funeral to be had.

The thought shocked Harry so deeply that he froze on the stairs mid-step.

A funeral.

Had there been a funeral? Why hadn’t he considered this before? Even just a symbolic goodbye. A burial without a casket.

Harry felt the walls closing in on him, the shrunken elven heads leering closer and closer with every passing second.

_A funeral._

Did the Order host a funeral? Would he have even been invited, especially considering he was the sole reason Sirius had died? The reason brave and gentle Neville had his face and father’s wand smashed, why innocent Luna was hunted and stunned, why his adopted brother Ron was confunded and then lashed by those horrible brains and little sister Ginny had smashed her ankle, why his pseudo sister was Hermione cursed so darkly by Dolohov that she had to be treated with unending potions day in and day out lest she fall dead at a moment’s notice.

Hermione’s begging words of reason, desperate to get Harry to think logically before running to Sirius’ help, played over and over in his mind.

Harry collapsed on the stairs, leaning against the wall and holding his head in his hands. The memories flashed behind his eyelids as he pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes, emotions in turmoil over the pain and horror he had brought upon his friends and his last remaining family. Watching Bellatrix curse Sirius through the veil once more brought a broken sob to his lips, begging his mind to please stop stop _stop._

* * *

Harry awoke in the last place he would have expected. He lay on his stomach in a ridiculously comfortable four poster bed and he craned his neck to look up at the obnoxious gold and red trimmings decorating the room. Muggle pinup posters were tacked haphazardly to each wall, including a couple posters of Betty Boop, a character Harry recalled from his earlier childhood. Though she certainly looked a fair bit naughtier in these posters than he had seen on the telly.

Quidditch flyers were Spell-O tapped carelessly between the suggestive posters, unfamiliar characters zooming around on brooms and silently cheering as goals were scored and snitches were caught. A wooden dresser was pressed against a decorated wall, overflowing with silk shirts and boxers. A built-in closet door peaked open, displaying carefully hung leather jackets and decorative trousers from a bygone era. A mirror was even tacked to the ceiling, showing full view the bed and making Harry blush a mottled red the implications.

Ignoring the room and its strange decorations, Harry turned back to the bed and breathed in deeply the scent of the plush comforter, the heavy duvet still smelling strong of his godfather even after all this time.

Unlike the ugly memories from before, Harry suddenly was reminded of a simpler time when Sirius used to come by the Potter house as an infant. The memories were slippery and difficult to grasp at best, so he simply absorbed the emotions and felt a warmth spread across his chest, enjoying the brief recluse. For a moment, Harry felt loved and he grasped onto the emotion tightly, ignoring reality and snuggling deeper into the comforter.

“Does the Harry Potter want dinner in the kitchens?” Came an unexpected, harsh voice.

Harry jumped in shock and whipped his head around, spectacle-less eyes attempting to focus on the blurry shape of Kreacher. His first reaction was to scream at the little creature the way Sirius had, just months ago, but the words stuck fast in his throat. He looked at the tiny, withering beast as best he could without his glasses and saw a miserable, hunched creature facing the door. It was clear that Kreacher had brought him here during his breakdown on the stairs and still expected cruel treatment. Hermione’s protests rang loudly in his ear, _He’s a person, Harry! Listen to me! It’s not right!_

For once, Harry listened to her despite every instinct screaming at him to beat the little monster senseless.

“Yes please,” Harry croaked. “Thank you.”

Both knew it wasn’t for the suggestion of food, but Kreacher merely ignored his peace offering and snapped his fingers, disappearing into the depths of Grimmauld Place. Harry sighed and let his head fall back into the pillow. It was going to be a _very_ long summer indeed.

* * *

Harry slowly made his way down to the kitchen after ensuring his invisibility cloak was safe and his satchel untouched. The stairs groaned unhappily as he lightly stepped down the stairs and he wondered if the ancestral home of Black was miserable to be owned by a half-blood.

Once making his way into the room, Harry sighed at the sight before him. A bowl of barely passable gruel and a glass of brown water had been placed on kitchen table. Kreacher sat in the corner of the room, grumbling as he knitted what appeared to be a tiny winter coat.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Harry ventured, sitting down at the table.

Kreacher looked up at the boy with such surprise that even Harry heard the cracking of his neck. “Filthy half-blood,” Kreacher murmured in distaste as he returned to his knitting.

It was obvious though, from Kreacher’s appearance and stature, that Sirius’ death had affected even him. Harry spooned the nasty concoction into his mouth, hoping not to offend the house elf by his slight grimace of disgust. On the contrary, it seemed to entertain the elf more.

After eating what little he could stomach, Harry walked his bowl of gruel and untouched water to the sink, washed the dishes, and placed them on an overly ornate rack to dry. He returned to the kitchen table and sat in silence. A grandfather clock chimed eleven o’clock somewhere in the house and Harry looked down at his twisting fingers, wishing he knew how to start a conversation with a racist elf.

“Kreacher knows Harry Potter is new master,” Kreacher grumbled while continuing his knitting, pearling violently.

Harry looked up in surprise. The little elf had never initiated a conversation before other than to insult, but it was clear he couldn’t hold back expressing his disgust.

“I’ll set you free, if you’d like,” Harry offered. In a flash, Kreacher had dropped his knitting and was howling silently in horror, maw gaping and eyes wide open, hands clawing at his ears as he knelt pitifully on the floor.

“No!” Harry whispered hoarsely, standing quickly from the table. “You don’t have to be free, Kreacher, only if you want!”

Kreacher ceased his horrific display of despair, slowly rising from his position on the floor. “Kreacher can stay?” The elf ventured fearfully.

“Of course, Kreacher,” Harry answered softly, returning to his seat. “I’d never make you leave. After all, you belong in the house more than I ever could. This is your home. I can only hope this will become mine too one day.”

The answer seemed to shock Kreacher to the bone and the elf stared at Harry in awed silence.

Harry felt himself soften at the evil git. The little creature seemed devastated at having lost everyone, even Sirius, and Harry couldn’t bear to let him destroy himself in the madness of solitude.

“I don’t want the Order here, anymore,” Harry admitted into the silence. He wasn’t sure what made him say it, but it came tumbling out of his mouth in embarrassing honesty.

Kreacher appraised the boy for a while. “Kreacher knows how to stop the mudblood and traitors coming into the house,” he stated, beady eyes daring Harry to challenge him.

Harry sighed at the terminology but accepted the gesture with grace. “That would be great, Kreacher. I just want this place to be… Brought back, I guess. To its formal glory. But better than ever. Want to help me?”

Without warning, Kreacher burst into tears and ran across the room towards the table, briefly terrifying Harry, and embraced Harry’s leg. The little elf gripped the pant leg with fervour, burying his face into Harry while he sobbed into the fabric helplessly.

Harry patted Kreacher’s back soothingly, though a little sickened by the feeling of the sobbing elf blowing his nose into his trousers, and pondered what exactly he had gotten himself into.

* * *

The next day, Harry was invited down to a large English breakfast complete with sweetened tea and strawberry jam for his scones. It surprised Harry to no end that simply being nice to Kreacher resulted in such a turnaround but, then again, the elf was completely insane and Harry wouldn’t dare mention it for fear of insulting the elf’s sensibilities.

Over breakfast, Harry discovered that Kreacher’s knowledge of wizardry and witchery was far more expansive than even a few established professors at Hogwarts. Kreacher had led Harry into the library after breakfast (and thoroughly washing his hands), an enormous study with a fair few dangerous books trying to draw him close to their sides. Kreacher gripped Harry’s hand as he led the boy past the compulsed tomes and sat him down in the centre of the room.

“Master needs to become with the wards,” Kreacher explained, though this only confused Harry more.

“One with the wards?” Harry asked, deferring to the elf’s knowledge and experience.

Kreacher scowled and dropped a heavy tome in his lap, making Harry cough at the sudden puff of dust wafting into his face.

“Master will read. Master knows less than a mudblood. Shameful,” the elf scolded harshly, wagging a finger at Harry’s watering eyes.

“But I –”

“Shameful!” Interrupted the elf in a loud voice. “No talky until finished reading!”

Harry stared at the house elf as if slapped, holding the tome close to his chest. “But –”

Kreacher suddenly drew a large wooden spoon out of thin air and shook it at Harry warningly. “Shameful.” The elf’s eyes narrowed and Harry realised the creature wouldn’t hold back on whacking him with the utensil.

Harry opened the book and began to read.

* * *

After being forced to read four ridiculously large tomes in less than eleven hours straight, Harry felt like his brain was about to explode. Kreacher fed him all kinds of ‘study food’, as the elf liked to claim. Strawberries, nuts and even peppermint tea was plied into his mouth as he absorbed the heavy text regarding Fidelius Charms.

Harry had a much greater appreciation for warding as a whole. And curse breaking. _Merlin,_ he thought, _Bill must be a genius._

While the texts were difficult to understand at first, the theories became significantly easier to process once Kreacher explained the terminology. To the elf’s credit, he never left Harry’s side with the exception of bringing more snacks or allowing a five-minute study break. Harry realised that Hermione would kill for this power and study ethic; he vowed to never let the two get onto speaking terms.

“Now Master Harry be writing an essays,” Kreacher announced. Harry whipped his head around and looked at Kreacher, appalled. “The promptsies being on the paper.” A piece of parchment was thrust into Harry’s face and he groaned with the horrified realisation that Kreacher was completely serious.


	4. The Elves Are Revolting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry discovers that Blood Adoptions are not as simple as they may seem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This chapter was originally posted on the 17th of Sept, but unfortunately in my haste to get it out, I missed out a couple important things... So I've since edited and updated, adding a few crucial points as needed (18/09/18). Enjoy! :)

**Chapter 4: “Mrs. Tweedy, The Elves Are Revolting”**

Harry was finally released from Kreacher’s filthy gaze on the fifth day of his stay at Grimmauld Place. He had been checking Sirius’ mirror nightly and confirmed that Dudley was indeed following through with their deal. Harry would send an owl each morning to Gringotts to confirm a deposit of one hundred pounds into his muggle bank account, a possibility that still perplexed him for its simplistic nature, and would patiently await for the next round of academic torture Kreacher decided to thrust on him.

Gringotts sent back a missive on the fourth morning, notifying him of a response from the governess. Unlike the current false owl mail the goblins were sending his interceptor (though all parties were fairly sure it was Dumbledore, to Harry’s despair), this mail was addressed to _The Master of the House, The Black Ancestral Home_. This seemed to work as intended and even Kreacher had cackled at the Slytherin-ness of it all.

Kreacher had finally left Harry to his studies, now believing the boy would read and take notes as deemed appropriate. Kreacher had been polishing a large goblet obsessively, eyes glittering at the Black Crest engraved in the pure silver and gold inlays, when Harry had come across him during a study break. Harry told Kreacher that he was welcome to choose three items of his desire in the house for his personal collection (a number that felt too small, but appropriate enough to not offend the Black-fanatical elf) and had been treated to another round of sobbing appreciation.

Their relationship had improved even more after that and Harry was still shocked how just a little kindness won the support and fierce loyalty of such a creature. He wished belatedly that Sirius had just _tried_ a bit harder, just acted a _little_ kinder. He noticed the dark look Kreacher wore when Harry was escorted to Sirius’ room each night and felt a rift grow a little wider in his heart. It was part of the same rift born when he saw those memories of his father torturing a young, defenceless Snape.

It blackened his heart a little each time.

While Harry was interested in meeting the governess that Sirius recommended, he was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable with the thought of leaving the house. Dudley was still pretending to be Other Harry and he hoped The Order bought the charade, but Harry didn’t want to jinx his luck by showing his face around Gringotts or Diagon Alley unless completely necessary. Besides, Kreacher knew more than enough about pureblood etiquette and the house elf managed to squeeze in a few lessons between Harry’s studies of the house wards.

A month into his stay at House Black and one day before his birthday, Harry was dressed rather fashionably (though about three decades behind) by Kreacher. The house elf stuffed his young charge into one of Sirius’ charcoal silk shirts and black linen trousers, now tailored to fit his much smaller frame. His self-tailoring robes were hidden in the depths of his trunk and Kreacher took the opportunity to dress Harry in a heavy set of over-robes despite the sweltering summer heat.

Harry allowed himself to be carefully groomed by Kreacher for about half an hour before begging for relief, insistent that he was to be late to Gringotts. Kreacher had been taken aback and Harry realised that wizards and witches weren’t the only ones intimidated by the goblin folk.

“Why won’t you tell me the ceremonial words, Kreacher?” Harry asked curiously.

“Master Harry will know,” Kreacher answered resolutely. “And if Master Harry does not, it is not to be.”

Despite the words, Harry found comfort. He would rather be Sirius’ blood son because it was meant to be than because of hours of training. It held the scent of cheek, of Marauder mischief, that drew Harry to the challenge.

Two minutes to departure, Harry looked down at his frame and smiled at the care Kreacher had put into stitching the clothes to fit just right.

“Kreacher, you really are the best, you know that, right?” Harry asked Kreacher playfully, a small smile quirking the edges of his lips.

Kreacher merely sneered, a look that Harry was slowly becoming to realise was a classic Kreacher diversion, and stretched out his hand.

“Master Harry’s not to be missing the meetings!” The elf demanded and Harry nodded, taking the tiny appendage.

With a crack, Harry and Kreacher appeared outside the bank five minutes to opening. At the early morning hour, not even seven-am, not a soul could be seen wandering the streets of Diagon Alley. Diagon Alley had been a recent target of Death Eater attacks in the past few days and the stench of foul smoke still wafted around the narrow alleys, a singeing reminder of Voldemort’s rather public return.

Griphook cracked open a small portal just a few feet away from the main entrance doors of Gringotts, a secret entrance that would never be noticed without being open, and Harry and Kreacher snuck into the bank.

Once inside and settled in the same meeting room where Harry heard the reading of Sirius’ will, Harry finally relaxed. Though he had seventeen hours to his birthday, Harry felt comfortable with his decision.

“Have you seen the governess, as Heir Black requested?” Griphook began formally, not bothering with pleasantries.

“I have not,” Harry responded respectfully. “But I have received the guidance and care of an ancestral elf of the House of Black. I have come to my decision.”

Griphook sneered at Kreacher coldly and bit back, “ _That_ is hardly an impartial source.”

Harry smiled at the attack, hardly offended, and responded kindly, “I also doubt a pureblood etiquette governess, no matter how highly recommended by my godfather, would be any less impartial. I will commit to see her once the inheritance has been accepted, though.”

Kreacher rose a triumphant, invisible eyebrow at Griphook, but shrunk back once the goblin’s glare was levelled on the house elf.

“As you wish, wizardling,” the goblin responded coldly, clearly uninterested in the reasoning behind Harry’s decision. “We will begin at the reading of the rights.”

Reinfeng then entered the room and gestured for Harry and Kreacher to follow him. Once everyone had settled in a room Harry recognised as a ritual room, he was asked to remove his outer robes. Harry obliged and stood in a circle of salt in the dark room, lit only by a few ceremonial candles.

“Harry James Potter, do you agree to the adoption and acceptance of the last Heir and Son of the House of Black?” Griphook asked deeply, eyes glowing in the near dark.

“I do,” Harry answered firmly.

Griphook nodded, then began to chant in Latin. Harry wished he could understand, but even Kreacher, who seemed to know the language like a second tongue, appeared lost by the ancient words.

Reinfeng held out his hand and Harry produced his arm, rolling back the silk sleeve to reveal a lightly scarred forearm. Reinfeng accepted a dagger from Griphook, who continued to chant in his haunting, gravelly voice, and Reinfeng slashed the air above Harry’s wrist with the dagger.

Harry closed his eyes as the dagger failed to touch his wrist and yet slit deep into the flesh. Blood poured from the wound and he bit his lip, a soft whine of pain the only recognition of the agonising wound.

“Do you accept Sirius Orion Arcturus Black, Heir to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black and member of the Sacred Twenty Eight, as your father?” Griphook asked suddenly, switching from incoherent Latin to English effortlessly.

“Yes,” gasped Harry as his blood poured onto the floor.

“Do you accept the laws of his people, of his family, of his honour?” Griphook pressed.

“I do,” Harry sobbed as his head began to spin wildly.

“Do you accept the responsibility and weight from which his title stands and agree to act fairly, honestly, and in good faith to the traditions of the House of Black?” Griphook asked at last.

“Yes, I do,” Harry answered breathlessly, eyes rolling and head lolling as he began to hedge death.

“Then you shall be,” Griphook answered resolutely.

Without notice, Harry’s mouth was yanked open and the vial of Sirius’ blood was poured down Harry’s mouth. A tiny hand massaged his throat and Harry swallowed, horrified at the pungent copper smell and disgust of drinking his godfather’s blood.

After that, all Harry knew was pain.

* * *

Harry awoke in a sweat soaked bed, body trembling with echoes of agony. It was Sirius’ four poster bed, but the room had been cleared of the suggestive posters, wicked mirrors, and victorious sports flyers. Even the gold and red tinsel cluttering the ceiling had been removed and instead the room lay bare. Harry’s eyes focused on the nearest beside table, looking for his glasses, when he realised with a start that he didn’t even need them.

The thought haunted him. Had he changed?

Harry sat up quickly and immediately regretted the motion. His body cried out in pain, his muscles protesting from hours of clenching and shifting. Harry wasn’t sure what had happened – this was definitely _not_ something he had planned for with Kreacher.

As if summoned, Kreacher apparated into the bedroom and froze upon seeing Harry awake. With sudden watery eyes, the elf launched himself at Harry and the boy caught the sobbing elf, doing his best to console the inconsolable.

“Kreacher, I’m okay, really, please don’t cry,” Harry crooned, a little taken aback by the slightly softer, velveteen voice coming through his lips.

Kreacher only wailed louder and Harry resolved to hug the elf until the sobbing died down. Once the alarming noise had softly turned into sniffles, and Kreacher had mostly composed himself (but refused to be removed from Harry’s arms), did Harry get a chance to speak.

“Kreacher, what happened?” Harry enquired softly, still stroking the back of the shaking elf.

“Master Harrys been having the worst reaction ever,” the elf answered wobbily. Harry could almost hear the tears gathering in Kreacher’s eyes and he sighed.

“How so?” Harry pressed, hopeful that the elf would elaborate. Seeing as he had received no training beforehand regarding blood adoption, Harry wasn’t even sure if this _wasn’t_ meant to be part of the process.

“The goblins thinking you have something nasty insides you, making the transition worst,” the elf answered, finally pulling away and placing two hands on Harry’s face, looking deep into his master’s eyes.

Something Kreacher saw shocked the elf, as he pulled away and turned even greyer than his normally waxen complexion. Harry watched the elf’s face in careful observance, the ashen expression a mixture of disbelief and shock, as he was seeing a ghost.

“What is it Kreacher?” Harry asked quietly, fearfully.

“Master Regulus…” The elf murmured, and then squeaked in surprise and disapparated without a moment’s notice.

Harry’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. Regulus – wasn’t that Sirius’ younger brother? He carefully crawled out of bed, still wary of his worn muscles. Two pale, petite feet met his sight and Harry started. His old feet had been small but not this delicate nor pale. He lifted his hands to his face and looked at the unblemished palms and fingers. _I must not tell lies_ still lay scarred into the flesh of his left hand, yet against the pale, soft hands it appeared more apparent than ever.

Harry cursed loudly, not having expected something of this magnitude to occur from agreeing to the blood adoption. _How the hell was I supposed to know?_ Harry reasoned darkly, but still unable to place the blame on Kreacher as he knew he could have researched the Black library himself prior to the ceremony.

Harry limped towards the built-in closet despite his protesting muscles and opened the largest door, knowing an enormous mirror hung on the other side. The sight that met his eyes made him jump.

At first, Harry thought he was looking at a painting instead of a mirror, but realised with startling clarity that the reflection was _him_. A petite, well portioned, pale boy came into focus. Wavy black hair, tamed by the slightest curl, brushed the edges of his shoulders. His previously long-ish face was sculpted into an aristocratic shape, rounded and jaw line sharp, cheekbones high and well defined. Harry’s once gangly limbs had adjusted to his size and he had grown a few centimetres, raising him closer to his age group despite still being on the small side. Harry was amazed to see toned arms and a fit form, not just a scrawny, wiry frame.

The most shocking difference was his eyes, which had changed into a softer, wider almond shape and lined with thick, long eyelashes. The beginnings of bushy eyebrows had been effortlessly wrangled into thin brows, defined by a strong slant and hooded eyes, making him look vaguely bored – Harry now realised it was a staple expression on most Blacks he’d met. Once purely green irises were now outlined by a dark charcoal on the edge of the iris and a bright silver ring around the pupil, expanding into the centre of the iris and flecking his eyes with silver and green.

Overall, Harry was completely flabbergasted to realise that he had indeed inherited the soft side of the Black genes while retaining a few major characteristics of his own. He was… _cute._ Effeminate. It was _upsetting_. Harry didn’t understand why he didn’t receive Sirius’ height or shoulder width or devilishly good looks – instead, he looked small, like a delicate doll. Not handsome. _Beautiful._ Harry scowled. _Typical, just typical. Couldn’t let me have_ this _either?_ He berated the universe bitterly.

Harry lifted a lock of hair to study his forehead and was shocked to see that his infamous scar had almost completely disappeared. Where the welt of a cursed scar used to be, the thin outline of a lightning bolt traced the upper right side of his forehead and though it was pronounced on his pale skin, it was no longer a furious, throbbing red. Harry noticed that, for the first time in _years_ , he felt calm. He felt like nothing could obtrude or interfere the sudden peace in his head.

That was, of course, until Kreacher returned towing Griphook in his wake.

* * *

It took two hours for Harry to finally stop raging and understand what Griphook was implying.

“You mean to say,” Harry started cautiously. “That I am a host to _part of the Dark Lord_ (a near beating by saying “Voldemort” had taught him to keep his mouth respectful around the goblin and elf) and the blood adoption challenged the soul piece’s right to host itself in my body?”

The elf and goblin nodded regally, though the impact was ruined when both turned to stare and sneer at one another.

“So I’ve been carrying around a _part_ of _the Dark Lord_ for _years_ ,” Harry elaborated, on the edge of hysterics.

At the corresponding nod, he laughed a little manically in faux humour.

“Does anyone else know about this?” Harry asked, still shaking in hysteria.

“I assume Dumbledore, who has been privy to your most intimate life story,” Griphook responded apathetically. “You still carry the soul shard, however it is no longer challenging your body and mind as the inheritance has accepted the soul shard as part of you. Had the soul piece been larger or stronger, you probably would have been turned into a vessel for its possession, and had it been any weaker the inheritance would have vanquished it.”

A sudden memory of Ginny laying on the floor of the Chamber of Secrets, pale and dying as a young Tom Riddle sucked the life from her cooling body, came to mind. Of Professor Quirrell possessed by the demonic face stuck to the back of his head.

“How – how can I get rid of it?” Harry whispered.

“There’s no way to tell without asking Dumbledore or the Dark Lord himself,” Griphook answered with candour.

This did not help Harry’s plight.

Griphook sighed dramatically and stood to leave. “I will respect your privacy in this topic, especially as I cannot discuss this matter with any other parties as this is part of the highly confidential inheritance adoption. However, Heir Potter-Black, this is pure black magic. Magics we dare not speak of in the confines of our own homes, nor write in any books you will find except in the darkest of libraries in Britain. Had this parasite remained tacked to your soul without a mutual resolution, it would have affected all those around you at some point or another. I would not be surprised if this is the reason you have suffered so greatly since the Dark Lord’s return. Be glad that is has been mostly neutralised. Good day,” the goblin stated, ending his brief monologue.

After Griphook had left with little fanfare, Kreacher sat on the bed next to Harry for a few minutes in silence.

 “Master Harry being sick in bed for many days,” Kreacher whispered conspiratorially. “It would overcomes you, possess you, and sometimes I caught a whiffsies of the magic and it reminded me of something Master Regulus… Master Regulus gave me something… Something that reeked of the _thing_ in your head, Masters Harry.”

At this, Harry gaped at Kreacher and tumbled out of the bed. “Show me, Kreacher.”

The elf grabbed Harry’s hand, eyes wide, and disapperated to the kitchen. Harry blinked in brief disorientation as Kreacher retrieved the item from his cupboard. Finally, the elf returned holding an object at arm’s length, body trembling with hatred. He placed it on the kitchen table and Harry discovered it was a large golden locket with an “S” carved on the face.

“Master Regulus gave this to me to destroys, died so Kreacher could leave, but Kreacher could not,” Kreacher admitted through tears, pulling on his ears. “Kreacher tried everything, but evil locket still here. Kreacher puts in fire, Kreacher puts in acid, Kreacher stabs with dagger, Kreacher drops from the highest building. Nothing, Masters Harry, nothing!”

Harry leaned forward to touch the locket, then snatched his hand back in surprise before he could touch its face. It felt similar to the diary he had encountered in second year, a boiling hatred and sadistic magic pulsing from the locket’s aura. Something about the locket tingled the back of his skull, the magic both familiar and nearly… Welcome. It made a shudder of something inexplicable rack through Harry’s frame.

Unwilling to discuss openly in front of the locket for fear that it was as sentient as the diary, Harry silently gestured for Kreacher follow him out of the kitchen. Once safely away, Harry breached a sigh of relief.

“That’s definitely a horcrux, Kreacher,” Harry whispered, lips carefully sounding out the unfamiliar word Griphook had used earlier. “It felt the same as the diary and even my scar at times. It’s dangerous. We need a Basilisk Fang – that’s what destroyed the diary.”

Kreacher pondered on the implications. “Can you finds the fang?” He whispered back, fearful of the horcrux hearing.

“I think so,” Harry agreed quietly. “At Hogwarts, we killed a basilisk in second year in Slytherin’s chamber. I can find it again and steal a fang to kill the damned thing.”

In that moment, he saw Kreacher provide the proudest, most genuinely glittering smile he had ever seen from the mopey elf. Kreacher reached out and hugged Harry’s pant leg, stroking the muscle and muttering something about ‘the bestest master’. Disturbed by the sight of Kreacher’s dark happiness, Harry smiled down at the little creature uneasily.

“For now, hide the locket, keep it away from sight and sound. I wouldn’t be surprised if the damn thing is sentient, like the diary... We’ll need to make sure that the house is warded against intruders, too, if we’ll be keeping pieces of the Dark Lord’s soul around the house,” Harry instructed, face softening at the elf’s eager nods and patting his head gently before the elf disappeared with a loud crack.

* * *

Harry’s summer passed by quicker than he expected.

Dudley had sent him an owl (to his complete shock and awe) to inform him that Dumbledore had sent pseudo-Harry a letter. Luckily, Harry had sent a new batch of Polyjuice just in time as Dudley had no other means of communicating with his cousin. The House of Black had an owlery, something Harry had never known before, and he had a choice of bad tempered barn owls or falcons that looked meaner than sin. Kreacher had shown off the falcons, lovingly sharpening their talons to a fine needlepoint and stroking their dark feathers as their piercing eyes followed Harry predatorily, as if he looked like a nice evening snack. Harry chose a scowling barn owl.

Dumbledore wanted to take ‘Harry’ on a fieldtrip. Writing back, Harry convinced Dudley to agree and noted that he was already upset with Dumbledore anyway, so Dudley could play a sulky teenager and get away with it. To his relief, Dudley agreed and a few days later Harry received a letter informing him of the adventure Dudley had received while travelling with Dumbledore.

Clearly, Dudley had been impressed by side-along apparition (though completely nauseated to the point of vomiting in public) and had enjoyed the wondrous displays of magic. Harry wished he could keep Dudley on reserve to hand off to Dumbledore for his mysterious missions so that Harry could continue on with his own valuable research. Why Harry would think it mattered to convince an old Potions Master to return to Hogwarts, he wasn’t sure. The whole situation seemed beyond ridiculous.

A piece of Harry felt a twinge treasonous at brushing Dumbledore off with such ease, but a much larger part of him loathed the headmaster for hiding something as important as _horcruxes_ after promising to keep no more secrets. Oh, and the fact he had one _in_ _his head_ probably should have come up _sometime_ in the last six or so years. Harry now knew that the horcrux was partially why Snape’s Break-Your-Mind Occlumency lessons had gone so poorly. And why Dumbledore spent the last year _ignoring_ and _hiding_ from him. The man clearly knew of its existence, that was for certain. _But god-forbid the man ever tells the truth straight up,_ Harry thought darkly. _Much better to_ _make me think that I’m going totally, undeniably insane_.

Harry found himself insurmountably irritated with the wizened old wizard.

Besides, if Dumbledore genuinely didn’t notice that _Dudley Dursley_ was pretending to be Harry Potter, then Dumbledore could eat an entire patch of boiled cabbages for all he cared.

In the meantime, Harry had discovered how to adjust the Fidelius Charm of Grimmauld Place. Dumbledore, the sneaky bastard, had told Other Harry that he was now the owner of Grimmauld Place (but made no mention of a will) and was convinced that summoning Kreacher would prove ownership. Thankfully, Kreacher had the insight to successfully play the part of hateful, miserable house elf and ‘obeyed’ Other Harry’s orders.

Kreacher had returned in a tizzy and luckily he and Harry were just prepared enough to adjust the wards on the spot. It took a fair bit of effort and all their collective magical reserves, but the memory of the location of the house was successfully removed at last from all those given the address by the secret keeper. Only through Harry’s newly minted Black blood was he able to remove the power of the current Secret Keeper and transfer the right unto himself instead. This was verified when the little scrap of paper in the entrance hall with the address written on it by Dumbledore himself burst into a neon green, heatless flame and disintegrated into ash in less than a second.

Harry felt strange having to remind Kreacher the address of the house, but also incredibly safer since the elf, who had lived in the house for the past six hundred years, couldn’t remember its location. Especially considering he wasn’t sure if Bellatrix Lestrange or Narcissa Malfoy (both _nee Black_ ) knew of the ancestral house’s address and Kreacher referring to them as Miss Bella and Miss Cissy gave him the creeps. He was immensely thankful they hadn’t decided to make Kreacher the secret keeper during the madness of the transfer.

All in all, Harry hoped the new development only brought Dumbledore more stress.

Kreacher kept Harry occupied by forcing his attendance at the pureblood culture lessons Sirius had arranged prior to his death while he was busy ‘working’ at Hogwarts Kitchens, which was more like showing his face on occasion at the school before apparating back to Grimmauld Place. Though he would never admit to Kreacher’s face, these lessons provided useful to understand the enormous sticks shoved up most of his pureblood classmates’ arses as he now realised the intricacies of each interaction.

Or, rather, Harry didn’t understand but did his best to adjust – which was stressful after weeks of endless lessons and tuition. To his unsurprised discovery, the governess was a beautiful woman who was clearly breathtakingly enthralled with Sirius and devastated by his death. It seemed the old dog had begun a little love affair, privy to no one, after settling in the ancestral Black House. Luckily, she seemed to assume that Harry was Sirius’ long lost son (though it helped looking like a tiny carbon copy of a Black heir) and kept their lessons secret out of respect for the fallen Black.

Another fortunate perk of Harry’s new appearance included being able to pass by completely unnoticed in Diagon Alley, hidden in plain sight. He knew that he should enjoy it while he could, since returning to Hogwarts would undoubtedly see the cat out of the bag.

Harry’s newly healthy body didn’t stop Kreacher from fussing over Harry’s wellbeing constantly. Harry had grown comfortable in his new form (though the knowledge of a soul shard living in him still gave him occasional nightmares) and Kreacher kept him well fed on homecooked meals, treacle tart and (thank Merlin) non-brown water. Kreacher’s announcement that he could indeed practice wand magic while in the Fidelius’d house was an awesome discovery until he realised that the house elf was going to still force him to practice wandless, wordless magic so he could defeat ‘that _bad_ man’. Kreacher even constantly hounded him to complete his summer Hogwarts lessons, even in classes he couldn’t take due to his OWLS.

Harry’s NEWT letter arrived at Dudley’s, who forwarded it on to Harry with the emergency owl Harry had stationed at No. Four Private drive. Dudley also reported that he politely declined an invitation to join Ron and Hermione for the rest of the summer at the Burrow.

It humoured Harry briefly to consider the looks on his closest friends’ faces as they received the declination to escape No. Four Private Drive, but it also caused him pain. He wished he could speak to Hermione about the blood adoption, sure she would understand in moments what he studied for weeks. He wanted Ron’s pureblood experience but also genuine interest, to speak openly and frankly about the troubles he was going through.

Harry couldn’t bare it, though. Couldn’t leave his much-needed tutorage now that Voldemort was officially back, especially since Dumbledore’s attempts to ‘teach’ Other Harry were basically as helpful as watching muggle telly (if Dudley’s descriptive letters were anything to go by). He couldn’t let Ron and Hermione in on more secrets that were guaranteed to put them in harm’s way – at least, not while he couldn’t be there to protect them.

So Harry thanked Dudley for his work, added a few extra hundred pounds to the bank deposit in appreciation, and returned to his studies.


	5. When Pigs Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry finds out something about Malfoy and Malfoy about Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7000 words of drama. Dear lord. Enjoy ;)

On one of the last days of Harry’s summer freedom, he mailed Dudley to thank him for his service and excused him from their contract. Though the boy was a few thousand pounds richer now than the beginning of the summer, Harry knew his cousin didn’t have to agree to half the things he had during the holidays. But Harry had long figured out that his cousin enjoyed the experience and intrigue. Harry was surprised to note that he had gotten much closer to his estranged cousin and the boy had warmed up considerably, maturing quickly over the summer while under the pressure of being Other Harry.

Harry had then sent a letter to Hermione explaining that he was going to enjoy a few days of freedom away from the Dursley household. Unfortunately he had to resort to muggle post, seeing as he had sent Hedwig to stay with Ron and didn’t want to tip anyone off by using a Black owl. He wrote of sneaking out of No. Four Private Drive and claimed he would spent the next couple days wandering muggle London while put up at a dingy motel.

Harry didn’t receive a response, as all letters addressed to “Harry Potter” disappeared into a large black hole that stunk suspiciously of Albus Dumbledore, but Harry knew that Hermione would tell Ron and they would probably understand. Even though Hermione would fret and wring her wrists over Harry’s lack of protection, Ron would undoubtedly fight for Harry’s right for freedom from his relatives and a bit of privacy before the start of term. Harry couldn’t write down his summer activities on parchment, knowing the messages would be intercepted once more even when sent by Muggle mail, so he waited patiently to tell them of his adventurous summer once on the Hogwarts Express.

Two days to the end of summer, Harry left the office of his governess after his last lesson, exhausted by her tears and well wishes. She had taken exceptionally to Harry, which he knew was entirely based on his intense inheritance of Black features, from silvery eyes (though thankfully mostly green) to the thick, wavy black hair. It was creepy, though, for the woman to stroke his head and croon at him, especially considering he was half her age and the ‘son’ of her deceased lover. His governess was an odd but likeable character that he realised, with some surprise, he would miss. Especially since they were able to quietly mourn the loss of a loved one in companionship during their private lessons.

Harry had slowly adjusted to his godfather’s death, the healing process slow but steady. And yet Harry wasn’t ready to deal with a governess sitting in his lap, going on about how much of an amazing man Sirius was while running her hands through his hair – to be honest, he didn’t think he would _ever_ be ready for something like that. Harry was also pretty sure that the woman doing so basically broke every rule of pureblood propriety she’d practically beaten into him over the summer.

On his way out of his last lesson, Harry slipped under his invisibility cloak, more comfortable in the secrecy even though he was rarely recognised in Diagon Alley these days, when he saw a flash of blond hair.

Harry recognised the white-blond colour in an instant. A Malfoy. Harry immediately thought of Lucius Malfoy, but he recalled that the Death Eater was holidaying in Azkaban for the foreseeable future. Harry smiled darkly at the thought. So, not Lucius – Draco.

Harry snuck behind Malfoy and tailed the boy as the went down into the depths of Knockturn Alley. They passed the Weasley twins’ joke shop not long ago and Harry felt a small shiver trickle down the back of his neck, feeling the desolate aura of the shopping district more than ever as the country sunk into deep despair over Voldemort’s return. Finally, Malfoy disappeared into the dirty entrance _Borgin and Burkes_. Harry crouched below the window, trying desperately to hear through the warded glass panes.

A muffled conversation later, Harry realised that Draco Malfoy was on a mission from Voldemort. Trying to fix something just out of the line of sight of Harry’s spying. What was the sixteen-year-old boy doing, carrying out the whims of a dark lord? Though, Harry noted bitterly, if Voldemort told Malfoy to do something, it wasn’t like the boy could politely decline.

Finally, Malfoy showed something to Borgin in a threatening manner, something on his arm that made the shopkeeper bow his head in deference to the sixteen-year old. Harry felt his skin crawl. _The Mark._

 _What the hell is happening?_ Harry thought, panicked. _Who the hell marks a child still in school?_  Harry realised with a start that he was being ridiculously stupid. _A psychotic wacko who murders babies and splits his soul into a million tiny pieces, that’s who,_ he thought caustically.

Malfoy finally ended his meeting with the ashen Borgin, stepping out of the shop. Harry caught sight of the boy’s face and blanched at Malfoy’s sickly features. He had certainly changed during the summer, nearing six feet in height. He had grown into his aristocratic features and had transformed from a pointy brat to a shockingly handsome Heir Malfoy over the summer (the thought disturbing Harry the moment he had it).

But Malfoy had thinned considerably, more than just a little lost baby fat, and his skin stretched taut over his sallow face as he sneered at no one in particular. His hair was messier than he thought a Malfoy capable of, a little greasy and windswept. His hooded, silver eyes darted to look around the alley and Harry was immensely grateful he had brought his invisibility cloak with him. After an eternity passed, Malfoy took off down the street, shoulders hunched and footsteps rapidly echoing away into the darkness.

After Malfoy was long gone, Harry cast a wandless, wordless _Notice Me Not_ charm on his being and carefully took off the invisibility cloak once he could see no human-shaped shadows nor feel any presences in the alleyway. He tucked it into his knapsack quickly and carefully smoothed down his ruffled hair and robes, pressing the creases out with ease. Once he looked presentable, he cast a quick _finite_ and strolled into Borgin and Burkes with a confident stride.

Harry had never been more grateful for his new looks and pureblood training, for Borgin turned to scowl at him and immediately balked. Harry walked the length of the shelves slowly, pointedly avoiding the Hand of Glory, and stopped to look down his nose at a display of taxidermied pixies.

“’Ello, there,” Borgin murmured in what Harry was sure the man thought was a welcoming tone. “What’cha looking fer today, young man?”

Harry looked up through his eyelashes at the greasy, poorly-groomed man. He smiled softly, a little disarming twitch of the corner of his lips (the one his governess had insisted he practiced daily and claimed it increased his intrigue), and looked around the shop with a raised eyebrow.

Borgin seemed encouraged by Harry’s behaviour as he scurried around the store to stand by his elbow. Though the man was fairly short by average standards, he still stood over Harry by a few centimetres and the stench of dark magic clinging to his unwashed clothes had Harry barely supressing a flare of his nostrils.

“You likin’ tha jewellery?” Borgin asked encouragingly, waving his hand at a few rings and earrings beside the pixies.

Harry hummed in response, pursing his lips. Turning on his heel, Harry wandered by the place Malfoy had stood minutes before and swept his eyes over the shelved products. There was a rather intricate cursed necklace, a few trinkets worth more as paperweights than their intended purpose, and an enormous armoire. But nothing stood out that would warrant Voldemort’s attention.

“Tha’s not fer sale,” Borgin suddenly announced coldly, jerking his head at the armoire.

Harry slowly turned his head to Borgin, pinning the shopkeeper with an unimpressed, hooded gaze. “I have no need for haunted armoires nor cursed jewellery,” Harry answered softly, barely above a whisper.

Borgin paled slightly, mannerisms changing from greasy salesman to overly defensive shop owner in a heartbeat.

“I don’ sell nothin’ tha’ my customers ain’ got a licence fer, boy,” Borgin growled.

Harry laughed lightly, tilting his head at Borgin respectfully. “Oh course, good sir. I never intended to imply otherwise,” he agreed. “I am looking for something a little more… Rare,” Harry continued, walking past the armoire, trying to seem uninterested in the large wooden cabinet.

Harry passed his hand over a few broaches on display with long-extinct house emblems carved into the fine gold, careful to keep an airgap of a few centimetres. The jewellery shivered, as if trying to reach out and snap into Harry’s outstretched palm like a magnet. Harry withdrew his caress and turned amused eyes on the store owner, clasping his hands behind his back to hide the curling of his fingers, which twitched painfully from the exposure to raw dark magic.

“It seems that you do not have what I am looking for,” Harry whispered, eyes roaming the stock with disinterest.

“Wha’ exactly are ye looking fer?” Borgin asked quickly, a greedy glint in his eyes at the thought of a special order.

“I’m not sure, exactly,” Harry answered with candour. “But I will know when I feel it.”

Harry realised with a start that he was subconsciously speaking of horcruxes. Though he reasoned that this implication was the furthest thing from the shopkeeper’s mind. It wasn’t exactly a hot topic to discuss, even in the depths of Knockturn Alley.

Borgin’s eyes narrowed in thought. “We do have a backroom for more… _Delicate_ stock,” Borgin began slowly, studying Harry’s face for a reaction.

“Perhaps next time,” Harry cut him off lightly, hiding his growing apprehension behind a mask of boredom. There was no way he was following Borgin into _any_ backroom without backup. That and he hardly doubted Lord Voldemort kept his horcruxes in the dank back room of a dusty Knockturn shop. “Thank you for your time,” Harry intoned lowly, nodding his head slightly but never breaking eye contact with the shopkeeper.

Borgin nodded frantically, seeing that Harry was about to leave, and scurried to the door to hold it open. “Please do keep our store in mind, Mister…?” Borgin trailed off, blatantly fishing for more information on Harry.

Harry smiled coolly at the shop owner and dipped his head once more in thinly disguised derision. “Heir Black, Mr. Borgin,” he acquiesced politely, and took off down the cobbled stone path of Knockturn Alley before he could notice the look of shock on the shopkeeper’s face.

* * *

Harry sat on a wooden bench on the magical side of Station 9 ¾ half an hour before the train was set to depart. Kreacher had wrung his hands in despair at leaving Harry alone by himself to wait for the train but Harry shooed the house elf away and promised to seek him out once he had settled at Hogwarts. Harry was pleased that Dumbledore had tried to manipulate Other Harry into sending the distraught house elf away from Grimmauld Place for his own purposes, for now Harry had his close confident with him at the school.

Despite the weirdness of the elf, Harry had grown to adore the creature and his bizarre, sometimes innocently unaware, evil personality. While it was strange to think that his little elf had grown up in one of the darkest magical houses in wizarding Britain, it explained the elf’s twisted moral guide and habit of performing ridiculously black magic and a cleaning charm in the same breath. 

Harry wondered what Dobby thought of his newfound friend. Though he seriously doubted the elf would be unhappy that he had technically ‘freed’ another house elf from years of abandoned servitude at the inaccessible House of Black. Harry couldn’t wait to be back in the walls of Hogwarts, especially now that the horrible frog woman Dolores Umbridge was banished back to the ministry and no longer skulked the halls of the ancient castle.

Harry had kept up to date with the recent movements of the newly elected Minister and upheaval at the Ministry. Despite his apprehension, his only source of news was the _Daily Prophet_ , of which the editors had done such an about face regarding Harry Potter’s reputation that he was immensely surprised the magical community wasn’t still suffering severe whiplash. Harry was disgusted to discover that the frog woman had kept her position. It appeared the ministry was undeniably more corrupt than even he originally thought.

Harry was pulled from his thoughts by a loud wave of chattering coming from the other side of the station. Dozens of wizarding families had begun to pile into the station from both the muggle entrance and the apparition points, filling the hall quickly and swamping the few early students who sat quietly reading their books or chatting amongst friends. Arriving early seemed to be a muggle tradition, as witches and wizards took their speedy travelling methods for granted and thus were often late to all occasions.

Standing and stretching his legs, Harry chuckled at the sight of fire-engine red hair pop through the muggle entrance. The multiple bobbing heads of red were promptly herded through the station by the barking of a fierce, plump woman who pushed a trolley of trunks through the throngs of families with determination. A head of wildly curly brunette hair followed a safe distance away.

Harry stepped forward to greet the Weasleys. Once within speaking distance, Harry called out to Ron.

The boy had grown immensely over the summer and Harry gaped as a tall, gangly boy whipped around at the sound of his best friend’s voice. Ron and Harry sized once another up, the taller boy clearly taken aback as well by Harry’s new appearance.

“Ron,” Harry greeted while grinning, stepping up to his best friend. He was quickly met with a wand in his face and surrounded by a gaggle of tense redheads. Harry froze and stared at his friend in surprise; surely he would recognise Harry even despite all the changes?

“What spell did you use to knock out the troll in first year?” Ron asked guardedly, never lowering his wand. Hermione peaked over his shoulder, looking at Harry with a concerned expression.

Harry rolled his eyes. “ _Win-gardium Lev-ee-oh-sah_ ,” he pronounced with great emphasis in the way Hermione had taught them. Harry then mimed the falling of a club with his hand with a whistle and made an explosion sound, like the cartoons from his childhood, to mimic the impact and troll falling down.

Ron’s lip twitched, but he didn’t give up. “What did you witness in Snape’s pensive?” He pressed.

Harry frowned slightly, but dutifully answered, “The Marauders bullying him.”

“Harry!” Squealed Hermione, launching past Ron and enveloping Harry tight hug. “Oh, my god. We missed you so much! What on earth happened to you? You look so different – like, Ron grew like a bean stalk and I know I’ve changed a bit, but you look like an _entirely_ different person! And you’ve even grown a few centimetres, and you look like you’ve finally eaten a full meal, and –”

Harry attempted a few weak protests during her tirade but hugged her back with force, burying his head in her shoulder and finally relaxing tense muscles. He was incredibly happy that Hermione had seemingly forgiven him for last year’s debacle and the cold shoulder over the summer.

“Merlin, Hermione, don’t go crushing him now,” Ron boomed, yanking Harry out of Hermione’s hold. The taller boy briefly hugged Harry as well and murmured, “Great to see you, mate. We really missed you.”

Harry was then yanked into the arms of Ginny, who hugged him tightly and whispered in his ear, “You’re telling us _everything_ this year – not just Hermione and Ron.” Harry nodded with aplomb, knowing Ginny could easily drag the truth out of him just by threatening him with her infamous Bat Boogey hex.

Harry was finally released into the hold of Mrs. Weasley, who alternated between fiercely berating the black-haired boy for going AWOL at the end of summer and hugging him within an inch of his life. Mr. Weasley took pity on Harry and pulled him from his wife’s motherly attentions, clasping the boy on the shoulder and welcoming him back to the wizarding world.

Harry blushed as his eyes watered and he laughed as he looked at his adopted family getting ready to depart. Hermione was already going off about her study schedule for the upcoming NEWT year and Ron was groaning in despair but giving the oblivious girl a few adoring looks when her back was turned. Molly fussed over Ginny, to the younger girl’s total embarrassment, and Arthur loaded the trunks into the side of the train’s carriage. He hadn’t realised how dearly he missed their company until now.

Just as the rowdy group began to board the train at the final boarding whistle, Harry turned to say goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and caught sight of Draco Malfoy. The boy stood next to his mother, a once regal woman who now looked as thin and sallow as her son, and the blond boy was passing his eyes over the station coldly. Malfoy did a quick double-take and stared at Harry with unguarded shock, surprising Harry when the boy’s normal mask of indifference dropped for a long moment. Mrs. Malfoy caught her son’s line of sight and grew ashen once she spotted the much-changed Harry.

 _They know_ , a little voice whispered in Harry’s mind. The idea upset him immediately and he ducked his head, moving to hide behind Ron’s tall frame to avoid the Malfoys’ attention and say his goodbyes to the Weasley parents. Once boarded and settled on the train in an empty compartment with the youngest Weasley siblings and Hermione, Harry chanced a glance back at the station and was incredibly unsettled by the sight of Mrs. Malfoy, now standing by herself and a wide berth given to her by the other parents, staring straight at him through the train window. Hooded grey eyes, a signature trait of the Black family, focused on him with intensity that cut into his soul. Harry had never been happier to hear the conductor’s sharp departure whistle and he ducked his head to hide from the unsettling woman. Even as the train pulled out of the station, Harry could feel the weight of Mrs. Malfoy’s piercing gaze following him into the distance.

* * *

After a few moments of confusion on the train as students found their respective friend groups, Neville and Luna located their carriage and expressed their own surprise at Harry’s new appearance.

“Gosh, Harry, you like just like a photo Gran has of Regulus Black,” Neville exclaimed once the compartment door was magically sealed and warded from snooping students.

Harry looked at Neville in surprise. “Your Gran has a photo of Regulus?” He asked incredulously. Despite the comparison already made by Kreacher, Harry had yet to see a photo of the young man who, from what Harry could gather, had met a rather gruesome, unfortunate end at a young age. Trying to get details, let alone photos, of Regulus Black out of Kreacher proved to be harder than extracting blood from a stone as it seemed the topic was severely traumatising to the old house elf.

“Who is Regulus Black?” Hermione asked, frowning.

“Well, Gran’s cousin Harfang married into the Black family and Gran’s super big on tradition and keeps photos of all extended family,” Neville answered Harry directly. “She even makes me memorise all the names and faces, even though the whole Black line is dead,” Neville answered miserably, pursing his lips at the thought. Suddenly, he seemed to realise his faux pas and began to stutter out an apology.

“Neville,” Harry soothed, holding up a hand to stop the boy’s bumbling. “It’s okay, I know you didn’t mean it like that. This summer was really… Long, I guess you could say. I’m coming to terms with his death and am grieving the way I should be,” Harry elaborated, smiling softly at his gentle giant of a friend.

Neville’s eyes filled with tears, but he smiled wetly at Harry’s kind words.

Hermione reached over and grabbed Harry’s hand (an action which made Ron turn a suspicious shade a red) and she smiled at the smaller boy. “You’ve really changed, huh?” She asked wondrously, as if this new and improved Harry was too good to be true.

“Of course he’s changed,” Luna chirped happily, making the group turn to her in surprise. “He’s partaken in the flesh and blood of tradition.”

Hermione’s eyebrows drew together in confusion, but Ginny, Ron and Neville all seemed to understand the implication immediately.

“No,” Ginny breathed, looking at Harry with awe. “Wait – I can see it now. I don’t know how we didn’t see it before!”

Neville nodded, eyes wide and wringing his wrists nervously. Ron merely stared at Harry with his mouth wide open.

“Ron, close your mouth before you catch flies,” Hermione snapped, her tone making Ron shut his jaw with an audible clicking of teeth. “You all need to explain right now. Who is Regulus Black and what is this tradition of flesh and blood?” She demanded angrily, upset at being left out.

“Not tradition of flesh and blood, but flesh and blood of tradition,” Luna unhelpfully corrected, then airily went back to her upside-down copy of _The Quibbler_ when Hermione turned furious eyes on the evasive girl.

“There’s this thing,” Ginny cut in, shifting closer to Luna to protect the girl from Hermione’s wrath. “In pureblood families. If you are the last of the main branch of the pureblood family, with no heir to continue the name, you can adopt an heir. The heir will become part of the family, including in flesh and blood. Their previous identity is basically abolished, unless the heir comes from another pureblood family, in which case some characteristics remain.”

“Just pureblood families?” Hermione asked sceptically, seemingly irritated by the elitism of the act.

“Most pureblood families choose a side of magic,” Neville contributed suddenly, looking far away into the English countryside as it flew by the window. “The Black family has traditionally been deeply entrenched in dark magic, for example, in the same way the Potters, Dumbledores and Longbottoms are entrenched in light magic. Only a few families, such as the House of Nott or House of Greengrass, have chosen somewhat neutral territory, or grey magic, committing to neither side and remaining mostly neutral in wars over the years. In many ways, it’s just as dangerous to not choose a side as it is to choose one.”

“And what does this have to do with anything?” Hermione asked, perplexed at the sudden pureblood history lesson.

Taking pity on her, Harry cut in and quickly explained what his friends were dancing around. “Each established house must have an Heir, Hermione. A few centuries ago, it was very fashionable for ancient houses to entrench their magic in a ‘side’, which changed their appearance and personalities. Have you wondered why most dark magic households are cynical, bitter people? Or why most light magic families are carefree, almost to the point of irritation?” Harry watched the cogs turning in Hermione’s head and smiled at his ridiculously clever friend.

“The magic often became infused in pureblood families after generations of practice and probably one too many rituals,” Harry continued, once he was sure Hermione was following along and ever more grateful for his pureblood training. “In a bid to protect their future generations, these families chose to weave a gift into their children, ensuring that should the family die out, the last living of the family could choose the option to adopt a wizard into the family and basically change their DNA using a blood ritual.

“It’s basically choosing a champion to protect the line. The magic binds to that person, gives them the responsibilities and duties of an inborn Heir of the house, and that person is required to live up to the traditions of that house. It’s called the Champion’s Gift. In many pureblood fairy tales, it’s referred to as the flesh and blood of tradition,” Harry finally ended, watching Hermione’s eyes sharpen as she ingested the new information.

“Sirius gave you the gift,” Hermione whispered, looking him over with wide eyes.

Harry nodded and smiled at Hermione disarmingly, not wanting to scare her off. “Regulus was Sirius’ younger brother, who I guess I take after in looks more than Sirius. I accepted the blood right before I really understood what I was getting into. It turns out that my blood is largely partial to light magic, which is unsurprising considering I am the heir to the Potter line, even if my blood was ‘diluted’,” at this, he added sarcastic quotation marks, “By my mum’s muggleborn blood. Blending that with the Black line could have been incredibly dangerous, as light and dark magic don’t generally mix well. But Sirius was always different than his family – he was more light than dark, but as he was a Black, his magic was more grey than light. I guess I’m lucky that it was Sirius’ blood I accepted before knowing any of this.”

Hermione looked up at the heavens as if searching for an answer and waved her hands in the air helplessly. “Why, Harry? Why the _hell_ does the most _bizarre_ _shit_ happen to you?” She finally burst out, surprising everyone in the compartment with her uncharacteristic swearing.

Everyone burst into laughter, easing the tension of the room.

“You have to admit, you’re simply gorgeous,” Ginny butt in once the laughter had died down.

Harry looked at Ginny, scrunching his face is scepticism. “Gorgeous? I look like a bloody idiot, that’s what,” he grumbled. “I really hope I’ve just not gone through puberty in this form yet.” Though the odds of that seemed highly unlikely, Harry didn’t bother mentioning, as accepting the blood adoption sped both his body and magic up to that of an ‘of age’ wizard.

“No, not really,” Luna cut in, eyes suddenly focused on Harry intensely. “Aristocratic,” she emphasised and Ginny agreed enthusiastically, making Harry shift closer to Neville at the sudden leers.

“Though still a little squirt,” Ron laughed out tactlessly, ruffling Harry’s hair in response to the scathing glare he received.

“Besides,” Harry cut in loudly, trying to distract Ron from making any more short jokes at his expense. “There’s something else we need to discuss, but not here.” He pulled a gold galleon from his pocket and held it out pointedly, not trusting the eyes or ears lurking on the train despite their warding.

The group nodded in understanding and quickly began discussing other topics. Ron waxed lyrical about George and Fred’s new joke shop, insisting that the twins were going to make a fortune, especially now that everyone needed a good laugh these days.

Ginny and Luna chatted amongst themselves with Neville interjecting every so often. Harry smiled privately at the pink blush on Neville’s cheeks as Luna informed him of the glowing gold dimpsies she noticed fluttering around his ears, apparently the hallmark of a good gardener.

Harry could almost taste the romantic tension in the air between Ron and Hermione as the two bickered about the new school year, fuelled by Ginny’s knowing teasing. Harry sighed and curled up against the window, watching the green rolling hills pass by and relaxing into the sound of his friends chattering.

Only half an hour into the train ride, Ginny jumped up and announced loudly, “I’m off to find Dean! Don’t expect me back for the rest of the ride.” She winked at Hermione, who only laughed at the cheek of the younger girl, and flounced out of the compartment. Ron turned an unattractive shade of red and muttered darkly about beating Dean into pulp.

“Oh, please,” Hermione scoffed. “She’s hardly incapable of looking after herself, Ron. Especially with six older brothers.”

Ron seemed marginally mollified by this and settled down.

“However, we do have the prefect’s meeting to attend, so get up,” Hermione added, standing up to gather her things and gesturing for Ron to follow her.

At Harry’s surprised expression, Hermione gasped and grabbed Harry’s hands once more. “Oh, Harry,” she gushed. “I’m so sorry! I completely forgot to tell you – Ron and I made prefect again this year!”

It was obvious from Hermione’s tense expression that she expected Harry to lose the plot at her declaration. Harry felt a twinge of self-loathing at the fact his best friends looked scared of his reaction, though it was warranted by his completely obscene behaviour the year before.

Harry smiled happily at Hermione, reaching out to give her a hug. “Of course you did! They’d be insane to choose anyone else,” he responded with heartfelt warmth. He clapped Ron on the shoulder and shooed the two surprised looking teens out of the compartment.

“You’ve shaken your wrackspurts this summer,” Luna observed out of the blue.

Harry turned to the blonde girl and smiled kindly. “Thanks for noticing, Luna. I feel a lot better.”

Luna smiled charmingly up at Harry and went back to her conversation with Neville, who gazed at the girl with stars in his eyes.

Feeling a little uncomfortable staying in the compartment until Ron and Hermione returned, Harry excused himself to go find the lunch trolley. He had already eaten an overly enthusiastic lunch of shepherd’s pie and dessert (packet a little too lovingly by the fanatical Black elf), but the thought of watching Neville pine over an oblivious Luna was not exactly his cup of tea so he decided to stretch his legs. Harry strolled down the length of the carriage and was relieved when the students failed to recognise him, eyes passing over him without seeing as he strolled past their carriages.

Harry had never been to the rear of the train before but had heard that there was a nice outdoor lookout. He realised that the front of the train was mostly composed of upper years and as he neared the rear, it was filled to the brim with nervous firsties and agitated second years, looking glum at having to share the space with their younger peers. Harry had never considered the power structure as he had always followed his friends to the compartments and found himself fascinated by this strange phenomenon.

Harry finally found the back of the train, a small carriage deserted bar a few studying Ravenclaws with their heads close together, who thankfully didn’t look up nor even seem to notice when he entered the carriage. He opened the door to the back deck and was stunned speechless by what he saw. The small platform was only a little over a meter deep and a couple of meters long. The edge was lined with an ornate, iron wrought railing and a well-polished wood banister. The wind whipped around the edges of the train, stirring and swirling as the train cut north through cool English air.

Harry felt a small happy noise pulled from his lips, a surprisingly genuine laugh of amazement perhaps for the first time in nearly a year. Harry reached out to the railing, stumbling under the strength of the wind and he gripped the top tightly, pulling his body against the cool iron and hands curling over the smooth wood bannister. Harry closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of the swirling wind whip up his hair and leaned his body into the force. His robes flapped loudly in his ears and Harry was amazed by the similarity to the sensation of flying. He had never quite appreciated how unnaturally fast the train moved through the countryside on its way to Hogwarts and he opened his eyes to take in the stunning sight.

The wind dipped in temperature quickly as the sun began to hang low in the horizon. The sky lay awash with violent hues of gold, red and orange – a sight he rarely saw since moving into the Black ancestral house. He watched with awe, cheeks pink from the cold wind but unable to look away from the vibrant sunset. He failed to hear the sound of the carriage door opening and closing over the roar of the wind, still struck dumb by the peace of the landscape before him. But Harry definitely noticed the two hands landing on the barrier on either side of his curled figure, boxing him against the railing.

Harry spun around quickly, wand in his hand and spell on the tip of his lips when he caught side of his ambusher. Draco Malfoy pressed Harry viciously against the railing, trapping Harry and catching his wrist with the practiced speed of Sneaker reflexes. Malfoy leered over the smaller boy, silver eyes alight and reflecting the hues of the sunset.

For one heart-stopping moment, Harry thought he saw Voldemort in those eyes. They flashed red in the glow of dying light and Harry froze, body trembling and eyes wide. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t make his body obey and _fight_. 

Then the moment of mind-stopping terror had passed and Harry realised he was completely disarmed, his back bent over the railing of a rapidly moving train by his childhood nemesis while frozen in some bizarre PTSD flashback to the Ministry. A nemesis who now proudly carried _The Mark_ and had enveloped Harry’s wand and hand in his much larger one.

Malfoy stared at him with glinting eyes, crowding his space and Harry held his breath, stunned at his inability to think of a spell let alone physically defend himself. Malfoy leaned down and studied Harry’s face, so close that Harry could feel the heat of the boy’s breath on his cheek. _This definitely isn’t appropriate_ , Harry thought to himself, helplessly blushing as he recalled the last two months of pureblood etiquette training.

“What have you done?” The Malfoy heir whispered against the side of Harry’s face, his head cocking as he changed his perspective to study Harry’s expression from a new angle as if he were a bizarre specimen that he didn’t quite understand.

Harry tried desperately to stop trembling, but the combination of the cold and the uncontrollable flashbacks to his encounter with Death Eaters _(facing Lucius Malfoy down in the Hall of Prophecies)_ only a few months before had him frozen in position like a mouse trapped by a viper.

“What are you talking about?” Harry finally forced out, voice rasping and hoarse, as he stared blankly straight ahead in a desperate attempt to avoid Malfoy’s hypnotising eyes.

Malfoy leaned even closer and ran his nose down the length of Harry’s jaw, nuzzling the soft, pale skin between his chin and neck. Harry grabbed the lapels of Malfoy’s robes in surprise, hands burying into the soft, tailored fabric. Harry’s wand was suddenly gone, taken effortlessly by Malfoy’s hand, and an arm was wrapped around Harry’s waist, bringing him even more impossibly closer to the blond. Harry was pressed even harder into the railing as another hand wrapped around the base of Harry’s head, roughly pulling at the delicate strands of hair. Harry let out a cry of pain as his head was yanked back, exposing the column of his throat to Malfoy’s inspection.

Malfoy’s nose was against his neck instantly, inhaling deeply, and then was replaced by a hot, open-mouthed kiss moments after. Harry felt his eyes roll into the back of his head, his mind immediately numbed save for focusing solely on the heat of Malfoy’s mouth, a roaring noise vibrating in his ears stunning him mute.

Teeth nipped up his throat and finally enclosed on his open mouth in a painfully heated kiss. Harry whined low in his throat, not sure what the _hell_ was happening but knowing enough to realise that he was completely and totally whipped, relaxing submissively into the taller boy’s grip. Malfoy moaned agreeably to Harry’s suddenly limp frame, running sharp nails over the boy’s skull and tugging painfully on Harry’s hair, soothing and punishing. Harry pulled on the boy’s robes, trying to bring Malfoy closer and bracing himself against the solid heat of the taller boy.

Suddenly, Malfoy was off him and Harry’s hands were yanked out of the taller boy’s robes in a violent motion. Harry stared up at the panting blond, his own breath loud and stuttering and the war drumbeat in his eardrums fading marginally. Malfoy’s hands were braced once more on the railing, still trapping Harry in his frame. Harry gripped the iron wrought barrier behind him as the train shifted and bucked. Harry stared up at Malfoy’s swirling grey eyes, mouth still gaping open in shock and pleasure and feeling like a bucket of ice was being dropped over his head as the situation finally caught up in his sluggish mind.

“You kissed me,” Harry stated loudly, flabbergasted. He blushed brightly at the accusation, not sure why his stupid mouth had decided to blurt that out.

“No,” Malfoy contradicted wildly. “I didn’t.” He looked so confident that Harry was sure for a second that he must have daydreamed the entire thing.

“Wait, no!” Harry protested, his mind slowly kicking into gear. “You actually _kissed me_. What the _hell_ , Malfoy?”

“Get over here,” Malfoy growled, grabbing Harry’s wrist and yanking him towards the carriage door.

“No! Let me go,” Harry protested fiercely, trying to yank his wrist back from Malfoy’s iron grip and trying not to fall over in the billowing wind.

The taller boy merely rolled his eyes, opening the carriage door with ease and threw the smaller boy through the opening, who stumbled and toppled to the carpeted floor from the force.

“Get. Out. Now,” Malfoy snarled at the group of studying Ravenclaws. They vanished so quickly, Harry would have thought they had apparated if the train wasn’t warded against such things.

“What on earth are you doing, Malf –” Harry started scolding, scandalised as he scrambled to get up from the carriage floor.

Harry was pushed back onto the floor harshly and Malfoy was suddenly on top of him, pinning him down. “I didn’t kiss you,” the boy growled, voice deep and dangerous. Muscled forearms rested on either side of Harry’s head and Malfoy hovered over his frame with knees braced beside his waist, making Harry feel even more claustrophobic in the tiny carriage.

Furious at how insane Malfoy was acting and tired of being pushed around like a plushie toy, Harry snarled. “Yes, you did, you completely psychotic piece of –”

Malfoy’s mouth was on his lips, hard and demanding and somehow soft and if Harry thought his mind was blank before, it was nothing compared to the total brain freeze he was experiencing now. Harry’s hands decided to develop a mind of their own and wove their way into soft, white-blond locks, holding that face against his like a lifeline. A warm, large hand wrapped around the back of Harry’s neck and tilted his head, allowing Malfoy to deepen the kiss.

The war drumbeat returned with a vengeance, drumming filling his ears, but this time it was slower. His entire being focused on the sensation of Malfoy’s tongue teasing his lips open, of the hard-muscled body pressing him into the train carpet ( _ew_ , a dazed voice said in the back of Harry’s mind), of the strange taste on Malfoy’s tongue and scent in his nose that was driving him absolutely _insane_.

Harry felt his hands pulling off Malfoy’s outer robes and he distantly agreed with their actions while he focused on whatever Malfoy was doing with his tongue that made his eyes cross and toes curl helplessly. Once the robe was opened and mostly pulled off Malfoy’s frame, Harry’s hands continued their quest by tugging on the soft, silk shirt tucked into Malfoy’s trousers, pulling it out with little effort. His hands were suddenly under Malfoy’s shirt and roaming the highly toned expanse of the taller boy’s muscles, nails dragging down the taunt back.

Large hands wrapped around Harry’s hips, pulling him clean off the floor. Harry couldn’t agree more, wrapping his legs around Malfoy’s waist and arching helplessly as Malfoy ground down against him. His mouth broke free of Malfoy’s punishing kiss and he threw his head back, releasing a helpless whine at the sensation and eyes rolling back in his head in untamed pleasure.

“ _Draco!”_ Screeched a horrid voice, cutting through Harry’s jumbled thoughts in an instant.

Harry gasped and tilted his head back to the sight of an enraged Pansy Parkinson standing in the doorway of the carriage, upside down from Harry’s perspective, her eyes sparkling with dangerous horror.

“ _Fuck!”_ Malfoy suddenly barked, letting go of Harry as if burnt and jumping quickly to his feet.

Harry was dropped to the floor gracelessly, completely disoriented and insanely turned on. He looked up with hooded, unfocused eyes at the boy before him, propping himself up on his elbows and trying desperately to clear the cobwebs from his head so he could understand _what the fuck was happening._

Harry opened his mouth and found he couldn’t speak, the drumbeat still filling his ears and shaking his body. He looked at Malfoy helplessly, unsure what to do.

Malfoy braced himself against one of the carriage’s booth tables and panted, looking directly at him with undisguised confusion. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, face twisting.

“You fucking piece of shit,” Malfoy finally growled, startling Harry to his core. “You piece _shit_!” He screamed, and slammed a clenched fist on the table’s surface.

Harry scooted back, suddenly aware that he was unarmed and _Malfoy had his wand_. He begged his body to stop shaking in anger, confusion, dread, to no avail. He wasn’t sure why this was happening or what was fuelling the madness filling his mind and body and he felt his eyes fill up with tears against his will.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This year was supposed to be _easy_. Harry couldn’t _handle_ another year of complete and utter insanity. _Not again!_ Harry’s mind wailed wildly.

“Fuck you!” Malfoy screamed, taking out Harry’s wand from his robe pocket and throwing it at Harry, who flinched at the movement but managed to catch it with an impressive display of reflexes before it hit his face. Malfoy ran past him, making a break for the carriage door, and Harry tried to scramble back from the hysterical boy. In his effort to escape, Malfoy’s boot clipped his face and Harry let out a cry of pain as he heard his nose snap under the pressure.

Malfoy didn’t look back, instead grabbing a stunned Pansy by the arm and slamming the carriage door behind themselves in their quick escape.

Harry laid his head down on the floor, stunned by the sudden silence and was left staring apathetically at the blood pooling on the carpet by his face. The sun had finally set and darkness descended on the empty carriage, casting shadows on Harry’s hunched frame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delayed post :( I've written nearly 60K (yes, really, 60,000 words) of this story, but it is so jumbled and out of sync that I need some time to edit and adjust and get in order. And, trust me, if Drarry isn't your thing - this won't last long at all. Neither will Draco.


	6. The Bog of Eternal Stench

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry finds out he has a 'type' and Ron does Ron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah sorry for a whole month wait on this chapter! D: I hope you enjoy!

Harry had fallen asleep in the little carriage, exhausted beyond belief by the day’s events. He hadn’t needed to interact with so many people since the beginning of the summer and he was remarkably worn out by the freak incident with Malfoy. That’s what he had decided to refer it as – The Incident. _Typical Death Eater scum_ , Harry thought with dark humour as he awoke from a foul, nightmare-plagued nap. The train was stopped, indicating that it had arrived at Hogwarts, but there wasn’t the usual hustle and bustle of students so he assumed that he had missed the carriages to the school.

To be honest, Harry couldn’t care less. If this was the tone of the school year already, Harry didn’t want to disembark. Between Sirius’ death, the reading of the will, his Black inheritance, finding out he was hosting a horcrux for Lord Voldemort and that the monster couldn’t be killed until all of his slimy, god-knows-what soul pieces were located and destroyed – by a basilisk fang no less… That Harry would probably need to die in order for Voldemort to finally bite the dust. _Fuck_. Harry didn’t have the energy.

His wallowing self-pity was interrupted by the carriage door opening with a bang. Harry sat up and met the concerned eyes of Nymphadora Tonks.

“Wotcher, Harry!” Tonks chirped, clearly pleased to see the young wizard.

“Hey, Tonks,” Harry replied kindly, unsteadily rising to his feet.

“ _Lumos_ ,” Tonks chanted, bringing light into the shadowy carriage. “Merlin, Harry! What on earth happened to your face?” She whispered, making her younger charge wince.

“Just an encounter,” Harry responded softly, looking down at the brown blood dried to the carpet in shame.

Tonks placed a finger under Harry’s chin and lifted his face up to study his features. He looked at her shyly through thick eyelashes, hoping she wouldn’t guess what he had done to himself over the summer.

“I’m not stupid, Harry,” Tonks whispered as if she read his mind, looking down at Harry’s newly acquired features. “Welcome to the family.” She then grabbed him and hugged him with the warmth of an older sister. After a few moments, Harry relaxed and wrapped his arms around Tonk’s thin frame.

A sob ripped out of Harry’s chest and Tonks stroked his hair gently. He hugged her tightly and they swayed for brief moment, both enjoying the comfort of the other’s touch.

“It’s okay, Harry,” Tonks whispered. “I miss him too. You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

Harry nodded in her shoulder and then winced as his broken nose shifted, cracking soundly.

Tonks tutted as she drew Harry away and studied him at arm’s length. “Oh, Harry. You really do get yourself into the oddest of situations,” she scolded without heat, drawing a weak smile from her young charge.

“I don’t get it, Tonks. I really could do with a calm year,” he admitted softly.

“I know, sweetheart,” Tonks answered kindly, genuine understanding in her voice that warmed Harry’s heart. “Let’s go and get you cleaned up. Professor Snape will be waiting for you by now.”

Before he could protest, Harry was whisked off the train by Tonks, who appeared more sullen and thin since he last saw her _. It looks like the summer was rough on everyone_ , Harry thought to himself. As they walked up the path to Hogwart’s entrance gates, Tonks was mostly silent, walking the unsteady path with pursed lips and shadowed eyes. Before the path took the last corner to expose the entrance gates, Harry grabbed Tonks’ arm to stop her. She turned to him, expression surprised as if she had forgotten Harry was following her.

“Would… Would you mind if I contacted you sometime?” Harry enquired softly, feet shifting uncomfortably on the mossy forest floor.

“Of course, Harry,” Tonks breathed, suddenly looking alert. “If you promise that I can contact you anytime, that is,” she added with a cheeky smile. The expression was so completely typical of Tonks that Harry felt himself tearing up. He brushed his eyes with the back of his hand in embarrassment, pulling a watery laugh from Tonks and she hugged Harry once more. The pair then composed themselves after a few moments and braved the last corner of the footpath to Hogwarts. 

A shadowy figure waited for their arrival, dark and disturbing behind the enormous iron wrought gates. Harry cringed, curling in on himself. While he didn’t particularly hate Snape, despite his deserved emotions of betrayal at the beginning of the summer, he also didn’t want to be left alone with the man for any extended period of time. Or at all, to be honest.

“Wait,” Tonks suddenly announced, holding Harry back. She pointed her wand at Harry’s face and before he could protest, a quick “ _Episkey!”_ was thrown in his face. His nose made a rather loud snapping sound and he groaned in relief as the cartilage realigned itself.

“Dramatic, Auror Tonks,” Snape intoned caustically through the silence, piercing Tonks with a glare.

Tonks merely smirked in response, pushing Harry towards the gates. A small doorway opened, instead of the entire set of gates as Harry had expected, and Harry was pulled through aggressively by Snape.

“As always, _Nymphadora_ , you are excused,” Snape sneered, sounding less than pleased to be dumped with Harry Potter on the first day of school.

“Wotcher, Harry,” Tonks crowed, sounding much happier than when she had first found Harry, and disapparated with an ear-splitting _crack!_

Harry refrained from flinching at the loud noise and supressed the wave of insults that washed into his mouth like an ocean wave. _Why hadn’t Hagrid come to collect him? Why was this measly, greasy, backstabbing –_ Harry shook his head. He couldn’t let himself get caught up in these rollercoaster emotions again, not when it killed his godfather a few months ago. Against his instincts to rip Snape a new one, he kept his lips tightly shut against the onslaught and cleared his mind, a concept that was becoming incredibly easy since the battle of souls ended with Voldemort’s horcrux kicked to the proverbial kerb.

“Hmph,” Snape hummed in disgust, looking down his hooked nose at Harry. Harry ducked his head in response, carefully studying the heavy scuffs on his new Oxfords that Kreacher had forced onto his feet that morning. Harry had pitched a fit about an obscene pair of suede Chelsea boots that Kreacher adored (Harry has the vague feeling that Kreacher is trying to turn Harry into a virtual carbon copy of a Black Heir) and had finally got it into the elf’s head that _he does not like suede_. Trying to explain that he preferred muggle sneakers over Italian leather Oxfords seemed like way too much of an effort after winning the small battle with the elf. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Kreacher was going to be extremely distraught by the large scratches. The poor house elf had polished them only yesterday. Harry felt bad for the creature despite the hell he’d gone through today; he’d need to get his overworked companion a gift.

Snape seemed irritated by the boy’s lack of attitude and jerked his head towards Hogwarts, escorting the boy in silence. Harry spent the time thinking of a gift that would most satisfy his monstrous, evil little house elf.

They finally approached the entrance of the massive castle and Harry looked up in fondness, smiling at the sight of his much-missed home. His heart leapt a little at looking at the steeples, the torches and the overall glow of the castle against the backdrop of the Milky Way.

Just as he looked up, Snape had turned to address Harry with a sneer (Harry doubted the man knew how to speak to people in anything other than scathing hatred) when he caught Harry’s face exposed to the light of the torches littering the castle entrance. Snape’s hand shot forward, grabbing Harry’s chin before he could retreat, and studied the boy’s features with appalled shock.

“You stupid, stupid boy,” Snape breathed in awe, yanking Harry’s neck into painful angles as he looked at Harry’s face from every angle. Harry knew pulling away would only bring more pain, so he closed his eyes patiently and waited for the professor to observe his fill.

Finally, his chin was released with a painful push and Snape stepped back to take in Harry’s full form.

“God, you look just like Regulus,” Snape murmured. Harry resisted rolling his eyes (wizards couldn’t help but state the obvious) and counted the pebbles on the path before him, lips sealed tightly.

“You even act like him,” Snape whispered once more and Harry raised his eyes to pin Snape with an unimpressed glare, though he’d forgotten that the man would have gone to school with Regulus. Harry wished Snape wasn’t such a dickhead – he has many questions about Regulus that no one, especially Kreacher, seemed capable of answering while Snape would have gone to school and been in Slytherin with the boy. Surely he’d know _something_ about the missing man.

The professor laughed disbelievingly. “James Potter’s son, willingly becoming a _Black_. What would your parents think?” He whispered in scathing derision. The hatred in his voice was obvious but Harry realised, for possibly the first time, it wasn’t directed at him but rather his long-lost father.

“What does it matter?” Harry whispered softly, staring at his professor in exhaustion. He didn’t want to have to deal with this nonsense; not now, not ever. “They’re dead, aren’t they?” He pressed sardonically, a pinch rhetorical and a little too cruel.

Snape reared back as if slapped. The silence between them grew heavy as Snape considered the boy before him with a scowl.

“Get a move on, brat,” Snape barked, finally breaking the staring contest and walking up the final steps to the castle doors.

Harry smiled darkly at his professor’s turned back and followed him home.

* * *

Walking into the Great Hall was just as dramatic as Harry wished it wouldn’t be. The heavy doors opened upon Snape’s command and the duo were exposed to the curiosity of every face in the hall. Harry studiously ignored the Slytherin table and walked quickly towards the concerned faces of his friends. Upon approaching the table, Hermione gasped and Ron looked a little green.

 _Fuck,_ Harry thought to himself. Was he still covered in blood? Did _Episkey_ not clear blood?

Upon settling down to the shocked, growing whispers of those around him, Hermione quickly whipped out her want and murmured a cleaning spell that banished the blood covering his lower face.

“Thanks, Hermione,” Harry whispered into the growing noise of gossip. She smiled at him despite the tears glimmering in her eyes and he wished dearly that he could have gone straight to bed instead of making a scene in front of the entire school, _again._

“What happened, Harry?” Ron whispered back with righteous anger lighting his eyes. Hermione nodded in agreeance with Ron’s enquiry, seeming like she was ready to beat whoever had hurt him by hand.

Harry dared not to look at the Slytherin table, knowing for sure that Malfoy would be boasting to his friends about how he had seduced the Golden Boy and then kicked his face in. A light blush covered his cheeks, horrified by his actions and not understanding what had happened on the train. Merlin, his life was a depressing mess.

“I’ll tell you later, during the meeting,” Harry promised hollowly, pouring himself a glass of water and ignoring the dessert piled high on the plates around him. The conversation in the Great Hall had quickly turned into a deafening roar and despite the fact he had not eaten since Kreacher’s packed lunch, Harry couldn’t face swallowing a bite. Not when every person in Hogwarts had seen his great entrance, covered in blood and looking like a direct descendant of the House of Black. If Tonks and Snape and even his friends had caught on immediately, there was no way this wasn’t going to be on the front page of the Daily Prophet tomorrow morning.

Harry couldn’t handle looking up at the Head Table either, knowing full well that Dumbledore was looking at him with disappointment. Despite the fact that Harry had just enjoyed one of the best summers in his entire life, had learned more about defeating Voldemort than in five years of ‘Dumbledore lessons’, had grieved Sirius’ death in the best way he knew possible, _and_ had come into his magical own, he knew Dumbledore would _still_ manage to turn this around into some horrible betrayal of trust. He didn’t have the energy nor headspace to deal with the old man’s manipulations.

Harry politely ignored Hermione’s attempts to make him eat and he sat at the table in silence, quietly playing with the gold galleon he procured from his pocket. Once Dumbledore rose to give his welcoming speech, the heavier than ever gossiping quickly died out. Harry wasn’t sure what Dumbledore said, for he’d tuned out the man’s words exhaustedly. Once everyone stood, he pocketed the galleon and rose to join his classmates.

Hermione muttered on as she ushered the first years to the Gryffindor tower, trying as she always did to decipher the nonsensical words at the end of Dumbledore’s speech. Harry didn’t have the heart to tell her that while Dumbledore may be the most powerful wizard alive, and the best dueller in the past handful of centuries, he was also completely off his rocker. If even her sharp mind couldn’t understand what he meant, the old man was probably just losing his mind.

Once in the Gryffindor Tower, Harry excused himself and collapsed on his four poster bed, wishing dearly that he was in Sirius’ room in Grimmauld Place instead.

* * *

The next morning, Harry felt a fair bit better. He was dressed in one of Sirius’ dark green shirts and charcoal cotton trousers, carefully tailored to his frame by Kreacher not too long before, and he wrapped the black robes he had purchased at Madam Malkin’s over the summer around his frame. Just as he finished dressing, Ron woke with a snort and stumbled out of his bed, feeling out blindly for the bathrooms.

Smiling at his best friend’s antics, Harry called out to Ron. “I’ll be at breakfast, okay? Don’t take too long,” Harry scolded Ron playfully. Harry was quickly shooed out with rather rude finger gestures by his groggily awakening roommates.

Hermione was already at breakfast by the time Harry stepped into the Great Hall. He carefully focused on her face as he made his way over to her, having seen a flash of white-blond hair in his peripheral vision and not ready to face anyone other than his best friend. He sat down with a sigh of relief, glad to not have been accosted by the other staring students.

“Morning, ‘Mione,” Harry greeted, watching the girl pull her head out of the morning paper with a start.

“Harry, don’t freak out,” Hermione began and Harry began to laugh. “What?” She asked, upset.

“I feel like we should make that the tagline of my life,” he finally answered between chuckles.

Hermione’s lips twitched and he could tell the poor girl was trying to stay serious despite the truth of his statement. “Okay,” she finally bit out. “I guess that’s fair enough.”

They dissolved into giggles and the brief tension broke with ease.

“Alright, seriously, what did you want to show me?” Harry asked after settling down with a glass of pumpkin juice and a bowl of porridge.

Hermione grimaced and handed Harry her daily copy of _The Daily Prophet_. He dramatically rolled his eyes as he unfolded the large paper then groaning as he saw a large image of himself and Snape entering the hall taking up the entire front page. Someone had clearly taken a covert photo last night, to Harry’s disgust. Harry was shocked to see himself enter the hall with a dark liquid splattered over the entire lower half of his face, the substance obviously blood even in the black and white photo.

Harry looked savage, as if he had just finished slaughtering a pack of werewolves and was now strolling in for his evening snack. He looked singularly focused, driven, but Harry knew the thought going through his exhausted mind at that moment had been, ‘ _get to Hermione and Ron, ignore the blond twat, then bed’_ on repeat. It certainly looked like he was thinking darker thoughts, though, but he guesses that's probably the hereditary expression of most Blacks. It was surprising to see himself in a photo with all the changes to his features, especially since he looked like an odd mixture between Sirius and Bellatrix. It was a realisation that churned his stomach uneasily.

 _Harry Potter: Unseen Battle for Hogwarts!_ Screamed the title in enormous block letters. _For more details, see page 4._

Harry chuckled darkly, though he was a little disturbed by seeing the amount of blood on his face. He hadn’t realised the break had been quite so bad. He tossed the paper down and dug into his breakfast.

“Merlin, they’re fucking morons,” Harry muttered into his oatmeal, drawing a loud snort from a surprised Hermione. He glanced up cheekily at the girl as she quickly wiped away the tea spilt on her robes and smiled at her fierce glare.

“Language, Potter,” she warned, though without the customary heat. Harry nodded his head in her direction.

They settled into a companionable silence, Hermione finishing reading the paper and muttering in disgust while Harry gazed off into the distance, daydreaming of freedom as he stirred the last of his oats. Professor McGonagall came by a few minutes after Ron ran into the entrance hall, desperate to catch breakfast and inhaling his pork sausages with determination.

McGonagall winced at Ron’s lack of table manners and passed the NEWT class schedule over to Hermione, discussing classes while Ron wiped his chin and had the good sense to look ashamed. McGonagall finally turned her attention to Harry and he was surprised to see that her expression softened slightly.

McGonagall and Harry briefly negotiated his course schedule and Harry stunned to discover that he could take Potions. _NEWT_ Potions. Harry was suddenly grateful Kreacher had forced him to do the extra classwork for potions class during the summer. The biggest stick in the mud was finding out that Snape was now leading DADA (a fact that grated Harry’s nerves endlessly), but Ron’s suggestion that the old bat was going to fall to the DADA curse in at least nine months put a smile back on Harry’s grim face.

 _Hopefully, Snape will be so incapacitated that he won’t be able to return next year_ , Harry thought nastily to himself but then he rapidly shook his mind to clear the cruel thoughts. He was disappointed that the professor could rip a hole in Harry’s carefully constructed calm, even when he wasn’t present. Harry pursed his lips and returned to his schedule, focusing on clearing his mind of all thoughts regarding Severus Snape and how much he’d like to punch the git in the throat.

* * *

To Harry’s unending despair, his first class was double Potions with the Slytherins which guaranteed that Harry was going to have to face Malfoy straight up every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning. _For two hours._ Harry slunk out the Great Hall with Hermione and Ron in tow, the couple bickering about some nonsense or another.

Harry had managed to keep their travel time brisk, thankfully out pacing their classmates and soon all three were panting in the dungeons, both Hermione and Ron looking at Harry questioningly at their near run to class. As soon as they walked into the Potions classroom, dramatically redecorated since last year, the trio stiffened immediately.

A sweet, musky smell blasted Harry’s senses and he suddenly found himself bracing against the back wall of the classroom, the cool flagstones doing little to cool his feverish body. Harry clenched his hands into tight fists, embracing the pain of his nails slicing into his palms. Once he had ridden out most of the wave the smell caused, he glanced up through his eyelashes to see Ron and even Hermione looking completely disarmed and punch drunk by the smell of the room.

A few cauldrons bubbled in the back of the classroom, the steam rising in spirals and the surface of the potion as shiny and opalescent as a pearl.

 _Amortentia_ , a voice whispered in Harry’s mind and he groaned audibly at the horribleness of the situation.

The door to the classroom opened and Harry lurched forward, grabbing his friends with a sheer veneer of self control and leading them towards the desks to the far right of the room. He placed himself on the far-left seat, open to the aisle in case he needed to dart out of the room. Hermione and Ron sat uncomfortably next one another, neither meeting one another’s eyes but they didn’t look nearly as affected as Harry felt.

Harry stared directly ahead as the other students wandered into the room, watching his classmates enter in the reflection of a bell jar at the front of the room. Lavender Brown sighed loudly upon entering the classroom and fluttered against her friend, Parvati, who swooned in response. A group of Slytherins pushed past the duo harshly only to stop in sudden surprise. Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini looked pleased by the smell, but immediately snapped out of their trance once Malfoy entered the room. Malfoy stiffened, much like Harry had, and began to tremble. Harry watched Parkinson and Zabini grab Malfoy’s arm and lead him to sit on the left of the room.

To Harry’s surprise, Malfoy fought to sit across the aisle from himself, just an arm’s reach away. Harry suppressed an unhappy moan, irritated that Malfoy sat only a metre away from his own seat. Harry stared straight ahead, watching uncomfortably in the corner of his eye as Malfoy turned and pinned him with a heated glare. Harry felt himself shudder and become disjointed, his mind numbing and his body feeling as if he were floating away from himself in an odd dislocating sense.

Harry had once considered what he might smell in Amortentia after reading about the love potion. He had thought he would smell the lightly petroleum-esque scent of his wood polish for his broom, or the sweet tang of treacle tart from the Hogwarts kitchens. Instead… He honestly wasn’t quite sure what he was smelling. It was a deep, stifling odour, permeated with an almost spicy musk and a harsh finish, reminding him of that one taste of firewhiskey he had back in fourth year. Harry didn’t recognise the smell but it _burned_ him, entering through his nose in sharp inhales and setting alight his lungs. And, despite the singeing of his lungs and the harshness of the smell, he felt his eyes close momentarily as his body shuddered in pleasure. It tasted like… Magic. Overwhelming, molasses-like magic.

“Harry?” Whispered a voice to Harry’s right.

Harry jumped lightly in his seat as his intense concentration was broken and he turned to face an extremely worried Hermione, unsure of how long he had been wallowing in the fumes. “Yes, Hermione?” He bit out patiently, hoping he didn’t seem too rude.

“Your hands are bleeding,” Hermione whispered back and Harry looked down at his fists in his lap, realising with surprise that he was still clenching his hands. With concentrated effort, Harry relaxed his hands and smiled weakly at her. “And… Your pupils are _really_ dilated, Harry,” Hermione added unhelpfully.

Harry closed his eyes in horror. He was so tightly wound, especially with the object of his humiliating secret sitting just a few feet away, that he could almost hear his jawbones grinding as he fought for control. Thankfully, Harry didn’t feel wildly attracted to Malfoy like he did on the train (or whatever that completely insane emotion was), but he felt weakly helpless and pleasure curled on the forefront of his brain, sending tinging shocks down his spine and curling dangerously in his stomach.

“It happens sometimes,” Hermione continued in a whisper. “Some people have really strong reactions to the potion, even if just the smell. It’s called _Amortentia_ and it’s an extremely strong love potion; everyone smells their own heart’s desire. I’m also pretty sure it’s insanely illegal, if not incredibly immoral, to have it brewing in an unaired classroom, getting a bunch of unattended students high,” she added crisply in a strong tone of disapproval.

Harry looked at her helplessly as his fists curled back in on themselves. “I guess the new professor is hoping to sedate us for introductions,” Harry gritted back through clenched teeth, trying to make a joke to lighten the mood.

Hermione blanched in horror.

“I’m kidding, Hermione,” Harry whispered, looking down at his lap.

“No,” Hermione contradicted. “I think you’re right.”

The thought made Harry feel sick.

Finally, the unintroduced professor bumbled into the classroom a minute late, chortling and chatting up the students and overall being a complete slime ball. Harry was briefly accosted by the man ( _Slughorn_ , his mind whispered) and he looked up through his eyelashes at the pompous bastard. Harry nodded politely at whatever the man was saying, not hearing anything over the roaring crash of waves in his ears and the pulse of a drumbeat. Harry trembled and felt his face grow ashen as another wave of the potion blasted their workbench.

“I think you need to go to the hospital wing,” Hermione hissed in Harry’s direction as Professor Slughorn completed his round of the classroom, introducing himself to whomever he deemed important.

Harry barely heard her over the blood rushing his hears and he nodded curtly.

Hermione’s hand shot up into the air.

“So I said, _Mr. Undersecretary, there is no way I can take your lake house for the entire summer! Not when you have much more important guests to host, such as the Minister himself!_ ” Slughorn chortled. “But _then_ the man said –”

Slughorn looked up at Hermione’s excited, waving hand. “Yes, my dear?” He asked, sounding a little put out at having been cut off.

“Harry’s not feeling well, Professor,” Hermione stated firmly. “I need to take him to the hospital wing.”

“Oh, my!” Slughorn squawked, scuttling towards Harry who in turn tensed harder.

“It’s alright, professor,” Hermione interrupted the professor’s approach. “I’ll escort him and then return as fast as possible.”

Slughorn’s beady eyes were focused exclusively on Harry, who felt the weight of the critical gaze with irritation, but then he flapped an unconcerned hand in Hermione’s direction. “Very well,” he announced dismissively.

Not waiting to hear the conditions of their release, Hermione stood so quickly that her chair nearly toppled over. She grabbed Harry’s forearm, collected both of their book bags, and shot out of the classroom in one sweeping motion.

The pair walked for five minutes silently, Hermione charging forward with rabid determination and tugging Harry behind her with an iron grip on his forearm. Harry finally regained control of his body after dazedly following behind and lightly pulled back on his abused arm. Hermione whipped around like a boomerang as they stopped and she hugged Harry tightly.

“That sick, perverted, ridiculous joke of a man… _Ooh how dare Dumbledore hire_ _that, that…_ ” Hermione stuttered angrily into Harry’s shoulder, fuming so hard that Harry could feel the sheer heat of her fury against his neck.

“It’s okay, Hermione,” Harry soothed, patting the enraged girl’s back. “We’ll just need to make up for Potions like DADA last year. How does _Snape’s Army_ sound to you?”

Hermione choked out a disbelieving laugh, pulling away to study Harry.

“You really have changed over the summer, haven’t you?” Hermione asked softly, eyes searching.

“You have no idea,” Harry agreed, smiling at his best friend, still trying desperately to take control of himself after having nearly melted into a puddle in the potions classroom.

 “So,” Hermione announced, lacing her fingers with Harry’s and leading him down the hallway. “Feel like skiving off the first class of the term?” She asked playfully, sending Harry a mischievous smile.

“Wait,” Harry crooned in disbelief as he allowed himself to be pulled down the hall. “Who are you and what have you done with Hermione Granger?”

Hermione laughed, lightly hitting Harry’s shoulder. “Hush you,” she murmured, but her eyes glittered with cheek.

“What did you smell?” Harry enquired, watching as Hermione turned slightly red as they strolled side by side, hands still intertwined.

“Grass, peppermint, and… well,” she trailed off, blush spreading down her neck.

“Ron?” Harry asked curiously.

Hermione squawked and her head whipped around to fix him with a glare. At his lack of judgemental reaction, she gave up and sighed. “That obvious, huh?”

Harry hummed his agreement. “Ron’s just as bad. I’m sure he smelled parchment, ink and rose water,” he teased. Hermione lit up in embarrassment, but she seemed pleased under her neon blush.

“What about you? What gets Harry Potter that hot under the collar?” Hermione retorted.

“Powerful black magic,” Harry answered a little hesitantly, figuring honesty in this situation would be the best approach. Hermione snorted and glared at him through the corner of her eye. 

“Yes, the incorruptible Harry Potter is wildly attracted to black magic. So much so, that he nearly _creams_ himself in a potions classroom. Sure, I believe that,” Hermione snarked, rolling her eyes.  

Harry cocked his head at Hermione, a little surprised by her newfound penchant for inappropriate jokes, and gave her a self-depreciating smile.

“Oh, my god,” Hermione exclaimed, dragging Harry to a halt. “Tell me you’re joking,” she demanded. “Seriously, Harry. Tell me you’re joking.”

 Harry looked down at the floor in shame and Hermione clapped a scandalised hand over her mouth.

“Room of Requirement, now,” Hermione stated, expression bewildered but eyes hard as glass.

Harry nodded miserably and followed Hermione to the seventh floor.

* * *

Once the pair had settled into their old training room, summoning plush chairs to sit around the crackling hearth, Hermione affixed Harry with her best McGonagall glare. Harry stared into the fire as he steepled his fingers, pressing them lightly to his lips in thought. They hadn’t spoken since his revelation in the dungeons and Harry wasn’t sure where to even start.

Hermione let out a noisy sigh and rolled her head back to look at the ceiling.

“What does black magic even smell like?” Hermione finally asked, breaking the silence.

Harry made a noise close to a laugh, but it was hollow and mirthless.

Hermione looked back at Harry with pursed lips. “It’s just… _You know_ ,” she emphasised, nose scrunching in distaste.

“Oh, I know,” Harry assured her, still looking deep into the flames.

“It’s just such a weird thing to consider. I don’t know…” Hermione trailed off helplessly, at a loss for words.

“With my luck, I’m just glad it’s not Voldemort,” Harry deadpanned, flickering his gaze to study Hermione’s reaction.

The girl shuddered and made a noise close to gagging, clenching the arm rests of her chair tightly.

“You have the sickest sense of humour, you know that?” Hermione asked rhetorically, a smile pulling at the corner of her lips.

Harry finally relaxed, tilting his head back in his chair and resting his eyes. “Still love me?” He whispered into the room.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione sighed sympathetically. “Of course, you dunderhead. It’s going to take a lot more than a dark magic kink to create a wedge between us.”

Harry squawked in surprise at her answer. “Kink?” He asked, incredulously.

Hermione smiled slyly and winked, causing Harry to blush even further.

“I think something happened that shouldn’t have, something I can’t find any records of,” Harry said quietly into the room. “When I was adopted by the Black family,” he elaborated at her quizzical look.

“What are you talking about?” Hermione pressed, leaning forward in her chair and studying Harry intently.

With no little effort, Harry finally told Hermione the story of following Malfoy down Knockturn Alley, of discovering Voldemort wanting a cabinet in Borgin and Burkes, and _painfully_ regaling The Incident. As he summarised the events of the train, her expression grew darker and darker with each passing word.

“And then I sat down at the table, you vanished the blood, and the rest is history,” Harry ended a little anti-climatically.

“So, Malfoy’s a Death Eater, he’s on a mission from Voldemort, he cornered you on the train, snogged you stupid, and then broke your nose,” Hermione stated, looking ready to enact her own version of Harry Hunting featuring a certain blond-haired ferret. “Now you’re helpless to the smell of black magic and find yourself swooning in the presence of some twat from a dark family.”

“Basically,” Harry answered simply.

“What a smarmy, ferrety little shit,” Hermione breathed furiously. At Harry’s look of surprise, she snorted. “It’s just so typically Malfoy and yet not,” she whispered, looking pensive.

“I know,” Harry agreed, turning back to face the fire. “I think Voldemort marked him as punishment for his father getting caught in the Ministry of Magic. That this is some kind of mission impossible that’s going to end with Malfoy dead at Voldemort’s feet. Malfoy seems to know it as well,” Harry murmured.

“So what exactly is the point of coming onto you? Why do this when he’s already in bad favour? What does he stand to get out of this?” Hermione asked curiously in brainstorming mode, eyes unfocused as she considered each angle.

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “Malfoy knows something. Something about being blood adopted into the Black family that I don’t. You should have seen the look on Narcissa Malfoy’s face, Hermione,” Harry pressed thoughtfully. “On the train station. It looked like she’d seen a ghost. And Malfoy seemed just as resistant to whatever happened between us as I was. He was… Mad. At _me._ But I don’t think he intentionally broke my nose. There’s no doubt that he didn’t notice it,” Harry explained at Hermione’s scandalised look. “But he was trying to get away just as fast as I wanted him to leave.”

Hermione nodded as she processed the new information.

“You know,” Hermione hummed thoughtfully. “There’s one option that we haven’t discussed yet.”

Harry stared at her quizzically, gesturing for her to continue.

“It’s actually pretty straightforward,” Hermione admitted. “Have you heard of Occam’s Razor?”

At Harry’s sound of disagreement, Hermione continued. “Occam’s Razor is basically a theory for distilling a problem to the simplest terms possible using the known factors and deducing an answer that sounds closest to the truth. Not to overstate its simplicity, but essentially the theory states that the most probable answer is often the simplest.” She looked at Harry meaningfully, as if willing him to understand.

Harry stared at Hermione in confusion. “And what’s the simplest answer?”

“Well,” she answered slowly. “The simplest answer is that… You fancy Malfoy.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at her. “I thought we established that’s bullshit,” he retorted bluntly.

Hermione gave him an exasperated look at waved her hands helplessly in the air. “Don’t play stupid, Harry. Not because of some ancient pureblood curse. Just plain and simple. You like him,” she pressed, leaning forward as Harry scoffed and turned to watch the fire.

Hermione braved on. “Especially since you two have been at one another’s throat for the past five years. He’s been pulling your proverbial pigtails since the moment he met you. You’ve been complaining about him ever since. You constantly bicker and needle one another day in and day out, not to mention obsessing for hours on how to get one over on the other. And now you’ve come back to school, looking like an heir to one of the darkest, most ancestral houses of purebloods, and Malfoy’s been completely taken off guard and is falling over himself to not constantly corner you and snog you to death. Plus Malfoy’s just taken the Mark, which I imagine reeks of black magic to you and you were just pushed over the edge.”

Harry gaped at Hermione, who had finished her tirade with a flush and settled back uncomfortably into the chair.

“Don’t look at me like that, Harry,” Hermione huffed. “Blame the Razor. Besides, everyone knows the Blacks have a penchant for incest,” she sniffed, blush growing darker despite her know-it-all tone.

Harry blanched. “What the hell do you mean?” He asked, choking on his words.

Hermione pinned Harry with an incredulous look. “Um, Harry,” she asked softly, as if speaking to a small child. “You do know that you’re technically second cousins now, right?”

Harry turned a sickly shade of white and his already tight lips paled considerably.

“Oh, my god,” Hermione gasped. “You really didn’t know, did you? Because now you’re technically Sirius’ son in flesh and blood and he is a direct cousin of Narcissa Malfoy and – ”

Harry held up his hand quickly to stop Hermione’s babbling, silencing her immediately.

“Hermione, I swear to Merlin and the spirit of Hogwarts herself that if you _don’t stop talking this instant I will literally vomit all over you_.”

Hermione’s open mouth snapped shut with a loud clack and they both stared at one another, Harry white as paper and Hermione looking nauseated at his threat. They were silent for several minutes as Harry composed himself.

“So, what you’re saying is,” Harry started slowly, carefully considering each word. “I’m suddenly somehow in love with Draco Malfoy, my second cousin in blood, and we simply can’t keep our hands off one other because of hormones and dark magic.”

Hermione shrunk into her chair and peered at Harry miserably. “Until another answer comes up… Yes,” she whispered.

Harry nodded and closed his eyes, letting his head fall back on the headrest of the chair. The two friends sat in silence as they ran down the clock until Potions class ended.

* * *

Harry and Hermione wandered down to their next class five minutes before the period ended. Harry wasn’t particularly interested in having to wade through throngs of leering students and he knew that word would get out immediately that he panicked in Slughorn’s class. Just as Harry turned a corner on their way to Runes, Hermione trailing slightly behind him, Harry caught sight of Draco Malfoy storming down the hallway, looking as if he was on a warpath.

Their eyes met briefly, a clash of green and grey, and Harry felt the blood drain from his face at Malfoy’s dark smirk of victory.

Harry shoved Hermione back around the corner and whipped out his invisibility cloak. He muffled Hermione’s yelp with his hand and draped the cloth over them, holding her tightly against the wall. Just as she began to squirm, Malfoy rounded the corner looking as if ready to rip someone’s throat out.

Malfoy balked at the seemingly empty hallway, a long corridor with only a staircase at the end and no doors to escape behind.

Hermione stopped moving and glanced at Harry, who carefully withdrew his hand from her mouth. He pressed a finger against his lips and she nodded nervously, returning to stare at the baffled, enraged blond.

Malfoy carefully looked around and, for a heart stopping moment, Harry was sure the boy saw him. Then Malfoy scowled darkly and continued stomping down the corridor, disappearing down the stairs and echoing steps fading away after a moment that felt like a lifetime.

“Merlin,” Hermione breathed. “When did he get so scary?”

“About the same time I misplaced my Gryffindor bravery,” Harry muttered distractedly, finally removing the cloak and tucking it into his knapsack.

“Thank Merlin you carry the cloak with you,” Hermione said, still looking a little haunted by their near encounter with Malfoy. Harry nodded, looking speculatively at the direction Malfoy went.

“Harry,” Hermione whispered, gaining his attention. “I think I take back what I said about the Razor. There’s definitely something else going on.”

Harry smiled at her sardonically and gestured for her to lead the way to class. Once her back was turned, Harry frowned and fell deep into thought.

* * *

After their double second class, Ancient Runes, Harry and Hermione quickly trotted to the Great Hall for lunch; thankfully the class was with Ravenclaw so Harry didn’t have to face Malfoy’s cold stare. Harry discovered that Kreacher had (behind Harry’s back, of course), sent in Harry’s essays from over the summer to Professor Babbling and begged for the boy to be allowed to NEWT Ancient Runes. The class had been added as a probationary trial period to Harry’s already packed schedule alongside with a note from Kreacher warning him of the consequences should he fail the class. Harry wasn’t sure who he feared more: the eagle eyed, stern Runes professor or Kreacher with a wooden spoon.

The infamous Hogwarts Rumour Mill was already in full force by the time Harry and Hermione walked through the large entrance doors. Hermione wasn’t usually privy to such gossip, as most of the students saw her as a nark, and no one had the guts to say to Harry’s face what they whispered behind his back, so the pair walked in deaf to the nonsense begin spread about them. Their usual aid in hearing the newest stories was either Ron, as he often got an earful from a gleeful Dean and Seamus, or Ginny, who was somehow always aware of every snippet of gossip on the grapevine.

Hermione and Harry walked quickly to the Gryffindor table, Hermione’s face beginning to grow anxious as the muttering grew exponentially in volume at their entrance. Harry remained calm, though irritation began to stir deep in his chest, and made a point of looking directly at the seat he was aiming for. A few students catcalled, making Hermione dart her head around and blush just as she sat down across the table from Ron.

“What on earth is going on?” Hermione hissed at Ron, who was staring at a pile of food on his plate glumly and looking a little green around the gills.

Harry sat down next to her and poured himself a glass of water, keeping a close eye on his mate’s queasy expression.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ron suddenly snapped, looking everywhere but Harry and Hermione. “Maybe it’s the brief shag you two shared in the broom cupboard on the seventh floor during Potions.”

Their section of the Gryffindor went deathly silent and Ron’s voice carried unnaturally.

“Excuse me?” Hermione cried out, griping the table edge so hard her knuckles turned white.

“Look at me,” Harry intoned darkly, staring straight ahead at his best friend.

Ron’s wandering eyes snapped to Harry, surprised by the dangerous tone.

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Harry stated, voice barely above a whisper. Lavender and Parvati leaned close to their side a little too obviously, causing Hermione to whip her head around to glare at the nosey girls.

Ron’s eyes darted between Harry, who was staring at him with quiet intensity, and Hermione who was still glaring down her two blushing classmates. “Whatever,” he fumed. Ron stood up quickly, gathered his bags and walked out of the Great Hall without a second glance back.

“What, what,” Hermione began to splutter, wringing her wrists in horror. “How dare – how _dare_ he?”

Harry didn’t respond and instead stared at the spot Ron had just vacated. This seemed to be a near-annual tradition for Ron. Act like an enormous ass, run away, then come back with his tail between his legs. A vicious cycle of throwing Harry under the proverbial bus, verbally abusing Hermione to tears, and then acting like it was all just one big mistake and _couldn’t they please forgive him_?

Harry felt his body numb with rage but carefully kept his hands relaxed and face slack. The crescent cuts on his palms from earlier that morning still stung and he focused on the physical pain rather than the dry ice consuming his stomach.

Harry slowly rose to his feet and offered Hermione his hand. She accepted it, confused, and he leaned close to whisper, “Let’s eat in the kitchens. Dobby and Kreacher will get us whatever we want.” At her nod, Harry walked Hermione out of the Great Hall briskly. As soon as they crossed the threshold into the hallway, the whispers turned into a deafening roar and Hermione visibly flinched.

Hermione took one look at Harry and burst into tears. He quickly pulled her aside into the nearest alcove and held her as she sobbed. His eyes grew flinty as he listened to Hermione’s heart break, resolve strengthening. Something had to be done about Ronald Weasley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I normally really like Ron but I couldn't help myself here. He was such a twat in the canon through 5th - 6th year. But this time - he's gone a little too far for a simple apology.


End file.
